BFOtoeS 



.K4 
Copy 1 




ffi 




T P 






1 9 

t •' i 


s c 





>l 



1 

; 

! 

I 1 

I ° i 

1 

1 1 


■■: 



4imt™ 




Copyright^ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



W^t Htoerstoe literature Series 



SOUTHERN POEMS 

SELECTED, ARRANGED AND EDITED 
WITH BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



BY 



CHARLES W. KENT 

PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE 
UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA 




BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 



.-y- ; 



6«» 



*« 



COPYRIGHT, I913, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLTN COMPANY 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 






CI.A343439 
fob/ 



PREFACE 

These poems are selected from the wide range of 
Southern poetry, that the South's contribution to our 
national literature may be in part apprehended. For 
a long time the productions of Southern writers were 
so inaccessible that authors of text-books on American 
Literature were disposed to neglect them altogether ; 
and even later the admission of any Southern author, 
save one or two of international fame, was somewhat 
grudging and apologetic. In recent years, especially 
since the publication of the Library of Southern 
Literature, by which a new perspective for American 
literature was afforded, fuller treatment has been 
accorded these Southern authors ; but very few stu- 
dents 1 of American literature have yet comprehended 
clearly and fully that, for some periods of our literary 
history and in some significant and far-reaching move- 
ments, literature in the South has been the dominant 
and controlling factor. 

These selections, however, have not been made to 
establish any cause or exemplify any theory, but partly 
to illustrate chronological development, and mainly to 
portray Southern life and sentiment in poems of indi- 
vidual literary merit. In giving preference to such 
poems as reveal characteristics of Southern climate, 
conditions, and life, the danger has not been escaped 
of presenting an occasional sentiment heated by the 

1 A notable exception is Dr. C. Alphonso Smith, in his Amer- 
ikanische Literatur, published by Weidmannische Buchhandlung, 
Berlin, Germany. 



iv PREFACE 

passions of war or heightened by the presence of a dra- 
matic crisis. It would be strange indeed if at that time 
no such sentiment were cherished or uttered : it would 
be even stranger to-day if we could not read these 
sentiments with the sympathy that belongs to their 
circumstances or the intellectual detachment that be- 
longs to ours. As a nation we can recognize the lit- 
erary merit of the Battle Hymn of the Republic and 
Maryland, My Maryland, even though as individuals 
we may not commend all the sentiments of either. 

In choosing these poems free use has been made of, 
first, the Library of Southern Literature, edited by 
Charles W. Kent and others, published by the Martin 
& Hoyt Company, Atlanta, Georgia ; second, Three 
Centuries of SouthernPoetry, edited by Carl Holliday, 
published by the Publishing House of the Methodist 
Church, South, Nashville, Tennessee ; third, Songs of 
the South, edited by Jennie Thornley Clarke, pub- 
lished by J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia. 
Acknowledgments to holders of copyright are made 
at appropriate points throughout the following pages. 



CONTENTS 

Unknown. 

Bacon's Epitaph 1 

St. George Tucker: 1752-1828 

Resignation : or, Days of My Youth 2 

Francis Scott Key: 1779-1843 

The Star-Spangled Banner 3 

Richard Henry Wilde : 1789-1847 

My Life is like the Summer Rose 5 

Samuel Henry Dickson: 1798-1872 

I sigh for the Land of the Cypress and Pine .... 6 

Edward Coote Pinkney: 1802-1828 

A Health ' 7 

William Gilmore Simms : 1806-1870 

The Swamp Fox 8 

Edgar Allan Poe : 1809-1849 

Israfel 11 

Annabel Lee 13 

The Raven 15 

Albert Pike: 1809-1891 

Ode to the Mocking-Bird 21 

Alexander Beaufort Meek : 1814-1865 

Land of the South 23 

Philip Pendleton Cooke: 1816-1850 

Florence Vane 25 

Theodore O'Hara : 1820-1867 

The Bivouac of the Dead 27 

Philo Henderson : 1822-1852 

The Long Ago 30 



viii CONTENTS 

Walter Malone : 1866- 

Opportunity 95 

Florida Nocturne 96 

Harry Stillwell Edwards : 1855- 

The Vulture and his Shadow 97 

William Gordon McCabe : 1841- 

Dreaming in the Trenches 98 

Daniel Bedinger Lucas : 1836-1909 

The Land Where We Were Dreaming 100 

Mary McNeil Fenollosa : 18- 

The Magnolia 103 

Biographical Notes 105 

Index of Titles Ill 

Index of Authors 112 



SOUTHERN POEMS 

BACON'S EPITAPH 

Unknown 

In 1814 the Massachusetts Historical Society published the Bur- 
well Papers, so called because of the family in whose possession these 
papers had long remained. At the close of Bacon s Proceedings in 
these papers stands the following remarkable poem, entitled Bacon's 
Epitaph, Made by his Man, and presumably written soon after Bacon's 
death in 1676. 

Death, why so cruel ? What ! No other way 

To manifest thy spleen, but thus to slay 

Our hopes of safety, liberty, our all, 

Which through thy tyranny with him 1 must fall 

To its late chaos ? 

. . Now we must complain, 5 

Since thou, in him, hast more than thousand slain, 
Whose lives and safeties did so much depend 
On him their life, with him their lives must end. 

Who now must heal those wounds, or stop that 

blood 
The Heathen made and drew into a flood ? 10 

Who is 't must plead our cause? Nor trump nor 

drum 

1 Nathaniel Bacon, born in Suffolk, England, in 1647 ; estab- 
lished a plantation on James River, Virginia ; without a commis- 
sion marched against the Indians in 1676 ; declared a rebel ; 
died on October 1, 1676. 



2 SOUTHERN POEMS 

Nor Deputations ; these, alas ! are dumb 

And cannot speak. Our Arms (though ne'er so strong) 

Will want the aid of his commanding tongue 

Which conquer'd more than Caesar. He o'erthrew 15 

Only the outward frame : this could subdue 

The rugged works of nature. Souls replete 

With dull chill cold, he 'd animate with heat 

Drawn forth of reason's limbic. In a word, 

Mars and Minerva both in him concurred 20 

For art, for arms, whose pen and sword alike, 

As Cato's did, may admiration strike 

Into his. foes; while they confess withal 

It was their guilt styl'd him a criminal. 

Only this difference does from truth proceed ; 25 

They in the guilt, he in the name must bleed. 

While none shall dare his obsequies to sing 

In deserv'd measures ; until time shall bring 

Truth crown'd with freedom, and from danger free 

To sound his praises to posterity. 30 

Here let him rest ; while we this truth report 
He 's gone from thence unto a higher Court 
To plead his cause, where he by this doth know 
Whether to Caesar he was friend or foe. 



RESIGNATION: OR, DAYS OF MY YOUTH 

St. George Tucker 

Days of my youth, ye have glided away ; 
Hairs of my youth, ye are frosted and gray ; 
Eyes of my youth, your keen sight is no more ; 
Cheeks of my youth, ye are furrowed all o'er ; 
Strength of my youth, all your vigor is gone ; 5 

Thoughts of my youth, your gay visions are flown. 



FRANCIS SCOTT KEY 3 

Days of my youth, I wish not your recall ; 
Hairs of my youth, I 'm content ye shall fall ; 
Eyes of my youth, you much evil have seen ; 
Cheeks of my youth, bathed in tears have you been ; 10 
Thoughts of my youth, you have led me astray ; 
Strength of my youth, why lament your decay ? 

Days of my age, ye will shortly be past ; 

Pains of my age, yet a while ye can last ; 

Joys of my age, in true wisdom delight ; 15 

Eyes of my age, be religion your light ; 

Thoughts of my age, dread ye not the cold sod ; 

Hopes of my age, be ye fixed on your God. 



THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER 
Francis Scott Key 

Written during the bombardment of Fort McHenry, in Baltimore, 
in 1814. 

O ! say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, 

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last 
gleaming — 
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the 
clouds of the fight, 
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly 
streaming ? 
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in 
air, 5 

Gave proof through the night that our flag was still 

there ; 
O ! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ? 



4 SOUTHERN POEMS 

On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the 
deep, 
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence re- 
poses, 10 
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering 
steep, 
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses ? 
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, 
In full glory reflected now shines on the stream ; 
'T is the star-spangled banner ; O long may it wave 15 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! 



And where is that band who so vauntiugly swore 

That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion 
A home and a country should leave us no more ? 
Their blood has washed out their foul footstep's pol- 
lution. 20 
No refuge could save the hireling and slave 
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave ; 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 

O ! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand 25 

Between their loved homes and the war's desolation ! 
Blessed with victory and peace, may the Heav'n- 
rescued land 
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us 
a nation ! 
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, 
And this be our motto — " In God is our trust ! " 30 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 



RICHARD HENRY WILDE 5 

MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE 

Richard Henry Wilde 

Originally entitled Stanzas, and inscribed to Ellen Adair, daughter 
of General John Adair of Kentucky. 

My life is like the summer rose, 

That opens to the morning sky, 
But, ere the shades of evening close, 

Is scattered on the ground — to die ! 
Yet on the rose's humble bed 5 

The sweetest dews of night are shed, 
As if she wept the waste to see — 
But none shall weep a tear for me ! 

My life is like the autumn leaf 

That trembles in the moon's pale ray : 10 
Its hold is frail — its date is brief, 

Restless — and soon to pass away ! 
Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, 
The parent tree will mourn its shade, 
The winds bewail the leafless tree — 15 

But none shall breathe a sigh for me ! 

My life is like the prints which feet 

Have left on Tampa's desert strand; 
Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 

All trace will vanish from the sand ; 20 

Yet, as if grieving to efface 
All vestige of the human race, 
On that lone shore loud moans the sea — 
But none, alas ! shall mourn for me ! 



SOUTHERN POEMS 



I SIGH FOR THE LAND OF THE CYPRESS 
AND PINE 

Samuel Henry Dickson 

I SIGH for the land of the cypress and pine, 

Where the jessamine blooms, and the gay wood- 
bine ; 

Where the moss droops low from the green oak 
tree, — 

Oh, that sun-bright land is the land for me ! 

The snowy flower of the orange there 5 

Sheds its sweet fragrance through the air ; 
And the Indian rose delights to twine 
Its branches with the laughing vine. 

There the deer leaps light through the open glade, 
Or hides him far in the forest shade, 10 

When the woods resound in the dewy morn 
With the clang of the merry hunter's horn. 

There the hummingbird, of rainbow plume, 
Hangs over the scarlet creeper's bloom ; 
While 'midst the leaves his varying dyes 15 

Sparkle like half-seen fairy eyes. 

There the echoes ring through the livelong day 
With the mock-bird's changeful roundelay ; 
And at night, when the scene is calm and still, 
With the moan of the plaintive whip-poor-will. 20 



EDWARD COOTE PINKNEY 7 

Oh ! I sigh for the land of the cypress and pine, 
Of the laurel, the rose, and the gay woodbine , 
Where the long, gray moss decks the rugged oak 

tree, — 
That sun-bright land is the land for me. 



A HEALTH 1 

Edward Coote Pinkney 

I FILL this cup to one made up of loveliness alone, 
A woman of her gentle sex the seeming paragon ; 
To whom the better elements and kindly stars have 

given 
A form so fair that, like the air, 't is less of earth 

than heaven. 

Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning 

birds, 5 

And something more than melody dwells ever in her 

words ; 
The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips 

each flows 
As one may see the burdened bee forth issue from 

the rose. 

Affections are as thoughts to her, the measures of her 

hours ; 
Her feelings have the fragrancy, the freshness of 

young flowers ; 10 

1 According- to Holliday (Three Centuries of Southern Poetry, 
Nashville, 1908), this poem was written in honor of Miss Rebecca 
Somerville, of Baltimore. 



8 SOUTHERN POEMS 

And lovely passions, changing oft, so fill her she 

appears 
The image of themselves by turns — the idol of past 

years ! 

Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture on 

the brain, 
And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long 

remain ; 
But memory, such as mine of her, so very much 

endears, 15 

When death is nigh my latest sigh will not be life's, 

but hers. 

I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone, 
A woman of her gentle sex the seeming paragon — 
Her health ! and would on earth there stood some 
more of such a frame, 19 

That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name. 



THE SWAMP FOX 

William Gilmore Simms 

We follow where the Swamp Fox 1 guides, 

His friends and merry men are we ; 
And when the troop of Tarleton rides, 

We burrow in the cypress tree. 
The turfy hammock is our bed, 

Our home is in the red deer's den, 
Our roof, the tree-top overhead, 

For we are wild and hunted men. 

1 General Francis Marion of Revolutionary fame. 



WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 9 

We fly by day and shun its light, 

But prompt to strike the sudden blow, 10 

We mount and start with early night, 

And through the forest track our foe, 
And soon he hears our chargers leap, 

The flashing saber blinds his eyes, 
And ere he drives away his sleep, 15 

And rushes from his camp, he dies. 

Free bridle-bit, good gallant steed, 

That will not ask a kind caress 
To swim the Santee at our need, 

When on his heels the foemen press — 20 

The true heart and the ready hand, 

The spirit stubborn to be free, 
The twisted bore, the smiting brand — 

And we are Marion's men, you see. 

Now light the fire and cook the meal, 25 

The last, perhaps, that we shall taste ; 
I hear the Swamp Fox round us steal, 

And that 's a sign we move in haste. 
He whistles to the scouts, and hark ! 

You hear his order calm and low. 30 

Come, wave your torch across the dark, 

And let us see the boys that go. 

We may not see their forms again, 

God help 'em, should they find the strife ! 

For they are strong and fearless men, 35 

And make no coward terms for life ; 

They '11 fight as long as Marion bids, 
And when he speaks the word to shy, 



10 SOUTHERN POEMS 

Then, not till then, they turn their steeds, 

Through thickening shade and swamp to fly. 40 

Now stir the fire and lie at ease — 

The scouts are gone, and on the brush 
I see the Colonel bend his knees, 

To take his slumbers too. But hush ! 
He 's praying, comrades ; 't is not strange ; 45 

The man that 's fighting day by day 
May well, when night comes, take a change, 

And down upon his knees to pray. 

Break up that hoecake, boys, and hand 

The sly and silent jug that 's there ; 50 

I love not it should idly stand 

When Marion's men have need of cheer. 
'T is seldom that our luck affords 

A stuff like this we just have quaffed, 
And dry potatoes on our boards 55 

May always call for such a draught. 

Now pile the brush and roll the log ; 

Hard pillow, but a soldier's head 
That 's half the time in brake and bog 

Must never think of softer bed. 60 

The owl is hooting to the night, 

The cooter crawling o'er the bank, 
And in that pond the flashing light 

Tells where the alligator sank. 

What ! 't is the signal ! start so soon, 65 

And through the Santee swamp so deep, 

Without the aid of friendly moon, 

And we, Heaven help us ! half asleep ! 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 11 

But courage, comrades ! Marion leads ; 

The Swamp Fox takes us out to-night ; 70 

So clear your swords and spur your steeds, 

There 's goodly chance, I think, of fight. 

We follow where the Swamp Fox guides, 

We leave the swamp and cypress tree, 
Our spurs are in our coursers' sides, 75 

And ready for the strife are we. 
The Tory camp is now in sight, 

And there he cowers within his den ; 
He hears our shouts, he dreads the fight, 

He fears, and flies from Marion's men. 80 

ISRAFEL 

Edgar Allan Poe 

" And the angel, Israfel, whose heartstrings are a lute, and who 
has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures." — The Koran. 

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell 
Whose heartstrings are a lute ; 

None sing so wildly well 

As the angel Israfel, 

And the giddy stars (so legends tell), 5 

Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell 
Of his voice, all mute. 

Tottering above 

In her highest noon, 

The enamored moon 10 

Blushes with love, 

While, to listen, the red levin 

(With the rapid Pleiads, even, 



12 SOUTHERN POEMS 

Which were seven) 

Pauses in Heaven. 15 

And they say (the starry choir 
And the other listening things) 

That Israfeli's fire 

Is owing to that lyre 

By which he sits and sings, — 20 

The trembling living wire 
Of those unusual strings. 

But the skies that angel trod, 

Where deep thoughts are a duty, 
Where Love 's a grown-up God, 25 

Where the Houri glances are 

Imbued with all the beauty 

Which we worship in a star. 

Therefore thou art not wrong, 

Israfeli, who despisest 30 

An unimpassioned song; 
To thee the laurels belong, 

Best bard, because the wisest : 
Merrily live, and long ! 

The ecstasies above 35 

With thy burning measures suit : 

Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, 
With the fervor of thy lute ; 
Well may the stars be mute ! 

Yes, Heaven is thine ; but this 40 

Is a world of sweets and sours ; 
Our flowers are merely — flowers, 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 13 

And the shadow of thy perfect bliss 
Is the sunshine of ours. 



If I could dwell 45 

Where Israfel 

Hath dwelt, and he where I, 
He might not sing so wildly well 

A mortal melody, 
While a bolder note than this might swell 50 

From my lyre within the sky. 



ANNABEL LEE 

Edgar Allan Poe 

This poem appeared in the New York Tribune, October 9, 1849, two 
days after Poe's death. Presumably the poem refers to Mrs. Poe. 1 

It was many and many a year ago, 

In a kingdom by the sea, 
That a maiden there lived whom you may know 

By the name of Annabel Lee ; 
And this maiden she lived with no other thought 5 

Than to love and be loved by me. 

/ was a child and she was a child, 

In this kingdom by the sea ; 
But we loved with a love that was more than love, 

I and my Annabel Lee ; 10 

With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 

Coveted her and me. 

1 For another interpretation see vol. vn, p. 218, of the Vir- 
ginia edition of Poe's Works, edited by James A. Harrison, 
New York, 1902. 



14 SOUTHERN POEMS 

And this was the reason that, long ago, 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 15 

My beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
So that her highborn kinsmen came 

And bore her away from me, 
To shut her up in a sepulcher 

In this kingdom by the sea. 20 

The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 

Went envying her and me ; 
Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know, 

In this kingdom by the sea) 
That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 25 

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than the love 

Of those who were older than we, 

Of many far wiser than we ; 
And neither the angels in heaven above, 30 

Nor the demons down under the sea, 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee : 

For the moon never beams, without bringing me 
dreams 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 35 

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee : 
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side 
Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride, 

In her sepulcher there by the sea, 40 

In her tomb by the sounding sea. 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 15 

THE RAVEN 

Edgar Allan Poe 
First published in The Evening Mirror on January 29, 1845. 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak 

and weary, 
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten 

lore, — 
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came 

a tapping, 
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber 

door. 
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my 

chamber door : 5 

Only this and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak De- 
cember ; 

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon 
the floor. 

Eagerly I wished the morrow ; — vainly I had sought 
to borrow 

From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the 
lost Lenore, 10 

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels 
name Lenore : 

Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple 

curtain 
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never 

felt before ; 



16 SOUTHERN POEMS 

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood 
repeating : 15 

" 'T is some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber 
door, 

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber 
door: 

This it is and nothing more." 

Presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then no 

longer, 
" Sir," said I, " or Madam, truly your forgiveness I 

implore ; 20 

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came 

rapping, 
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my 

chamber door, 
That I scarce was sure I heard you" — here I opened 

wide the door : — 

Darkness there and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there 

wondering, fearing, 25 

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to 

dream before ; 
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave 

no token, 
And the only word there spoken was the whispered 

word, " Lenore ? " 
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the 

word, " Lenore ! " 

Merely this and nothing more. 30 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me 
burning, 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 17 

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than 
before. 

" Surely," said I, " surely that is something at my 
window lattice; 

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery 
explore ; 

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery ex- 
plore : . 35 
'T is the wind and nothing more." 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt 

and flutter, 
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days 

of yore. 
Not the least obeisance made he ; not a minute 

stopped or stayed he ; 
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my 

chamber door, 40 

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber 

door: 

Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into 
smiling 

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it 
wore, — 

" Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, 
" art sure no craven, 45 

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the 
Nightly shore : 

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plu- 
tonian shore ! " 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 



18 SOUTHERN POEMS 

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse 

so plainly, 
Though his answer little meaning — little relevancy 

bore ; 50 

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human 

being 
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his 

chamber door, 
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his 

chamber door, 

With such name as " Nevermore." 

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, 

spoke only 55 

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did 

outpour. 
Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then he 

fluttered, 
Till I scarcely more than muttered, " Other friends 

have flown before : 
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have 

flown before." 

Then the bird said, " Nevermore." 60 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly 

spoken, 
" Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock 

and store, 
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful 

Disaster 
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one 

burden bore : 
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden 

bore 65 

Of ' Never — nevermore.' " 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 19 

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into 
smiling, 

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird 
and bust and door ; 

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to 
linkinsr 

Fancy into fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of 
yore, 70 

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and omi- 
nous bird of yore 

Meant in croaking " Nevermore." 

Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable ex- 
pressing 

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my 
bosom's core ; 

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease 
reclining 75 

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight 
gloated o'er, 

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight 
gloating o'er 

She shall press, ah, nevermore ! 

Then, me thought, the air grew denser, perfumed from 

an unseen censer 
Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the 

tufted floor. 80 

" Wretch," I cried, " thy God hath lent thee — by 

these angels he hath sent thee 
Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories 

of Lenore ; 
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this 

lost Lenore ! " 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 



20 SOUTHERN POEMS 

" Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil ! prophet still, if 
bird or devil ! 85 

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed 
thee here ashore, 

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land en- 
chanted — 

On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I 
implore : 

Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me — tell 
me, I implore ! " 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 90 

" Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil ! prophet still, if 

bird or devil ! 
By that Heaven that bends above us, by that God we 

both adore, 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant 

Aidenn, 
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels 

name Lenore : 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels 

name Lenore ! " 95 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

" Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! " 
I shrieked, upstarting : 

" Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plu- 
tonian shore ! 

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul 
hath spoken ! 

Leave my loneliness unbroken ! quit the bust above 
my door! 100 

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form 
from off my door ! " 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 



ALBERT PIKE 21 

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is 

sitting 
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber 

door ; 
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that 

is dreaming, 105 

And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his 

shadow on the floor : 
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating 

on the floor 

Shall be lifted — nevermore ! 

ODE TO THE MOCKING-BIRD 

Albert Pike 

Thou glorious mocker of the world ! I hear 
Thy many voices ringing through the glooms 

Of these green solitudes ; and all the clear, 

Bright joyance of their song enthralls the ear, 

And floods the heart. Over the sphered tombs 5 

Of vanished nations rolls thy music tide ; 
No light from History's starlit page illumes 

The memory of these nations ; they have died : 

None care for them but thou ; and thou mayst sing 
O'er me perhaps, as now thy clear notes ring 10 

Over their bones by whom thou once wast deified. 

Glad scorner of all cities ! Thou dost leave 
The world's mad turmoil and incessant din, 

Where none in other's honesty believe, 

Where the old sigh, the young turn gray and grieve, 
Where misery gnaws the maiden's heart within : 

Thou fleest far into the dark green woods, 



22 SOUTHERN POEMS 

Where, with thy flood of music, thou canst win 
Their heart to harmony, and where intrudes 

No discord on thy melodies. O, where, 20 

Among the sweet musicians of the air, 
Is one so dear as thou to these old solitudes? 

Ha ! what a burst was that ! The iEolian strain 
Goes floating through the tangled passages 

Of the still woods, and now it comes again, 25 

A multitudinous melody, — like a rain 
Of glassy music under echoing trees, 

Close by a ringing lake. It wraps the soul 
With a bright harmony of happiness, 

Even as a gem is wrapped when round it roll 30 

Thin waves of crimson flame ; till we become, 
With the excess of perfect pleasure, dumb, 

And pant like a swift runner clinging to the goal. 

I cannot love the man who doth not love, 

As men love light, the song of happy birds; 35 

For the first visions that my boy heart wove 

To fill its sleep with, were that I did rove 

Through the fresh woods, what time the snowy herds 

Of morning clouds shrunk from the advancing sun 
Into the depths of Heaven's blue heart, as words 40 

From the Poet's lips float gently, one by one, 
And vanish in the human heart ; and then 
I reveled in such songs, and sorrowed when, 

With noon-heat overwrought, the music-gush was 
done. 

I would, sweet bird, that I might live with thee, 45 

Amid the eloquent grandeur of these shades, 
Alone with nature -— but it may not be ; 



ALEXANDER BEAUFORT MEEK 23 

I have to struggle with the stormy sea 

Of human life until existence fades 
Into death's darkness. Thou wilt sing and soar 50 

Through the thick woods and shadow-checkered 
glades, 
While pain and sorrow cast no dimness o'er 

The brilliance of thy heart ; but I must wear, 

As now, my garments of regret and care, 
As penitents of old their galling sackcloth wore. 55 

Yet why complain ? What though fond hopes deferred 
Have overshadowed Life's green paths with gloom ? 

Content's soft music is not all unheard ; 

There is a voice sweeter than thine, sweet bird, 

To welcome me within my humble home : 60 

There is an eye, with love's devotion bright, 
The darkness of existence to illume. 

Then why complain ? When Death shall cast his 
blight 
Over the spirit, my cold bones shall rest 
Beneath these trees ; and from thy swelling breast, 65 

Over them pour thy song, like a rich flood of light. 

LAND OF THE SOUTH 

Alexander Beaufort Meek 

These stanzas were introduced in an address entitled " The Day of 
Freedom," delivered in 1838. 

I 

Land of the South ! — imperial land ! — 

How proud thy mountains rise ! 
How sweet thy scenes on every hand ! 

How fair thy covering skies ! 



24 SOUTHERN POEMS 

But not for this — oh, not for these — 5 

I love thy fields to roam ; 
Thou hast a dearer spell to me, — 

Thou art my native home ! 

II 
Thy rivers roll their liquid wealth, 

Unequaled to the sea ; 10 

Thy hills and valleys bloom with health, 

And green with verdure be ! 
But not for thy proud ocean streams, 

Not for thy azure dome, 
Sweet, sunny South, I cling to thee, — 15 

Thou art my native home ! 

Ill 
I 've stood beneath Italia's clime, 

Beloved of tale and song, 
On Helvyn's 1 hills, proud and sublime, 

Where nature's wonders throng ; 20 

By Tempe's classic sunlit streams, 

Where Gods, of old, did roam, — 
But ne'er have found so fair a land 

As thou, my native home ! 

IV 
And thou hast prouder glories, too, 25 

Than nature ever gave ; 
Peace sheds o'er thee her genial dew, 

And Freedom's pinions wave ; 
Fair Science flings her pearls around, 

Religion lifts her dome, — 30 

These, these endear thee to my heart, 

My own, loved native home ! 

1 Helvyn, poetical name for Switzerland. 



PHILIP PENDLETON ^COOKE 25 

V 
And "Heaven's best gift to man" is thine — 

God bless thy rosy girls ! 
Like sylvan flowers they sweetly shine, 35 

Their hearts are pure as pearls ! 
And grace and goodness circle them, 

Where'er their footsteps roam ; 
How can I then, whilst loving them, 

Not love my native home? 40 

VI 

Land of the South ! — imperial land ! — 

Then here 's a health to thee : 
Long as thy mountain barriers stand, 

May'st thou be blest and free ! 
May dark dissension's banner ne'er 45 

Wave o'er thy fertile loam ! 
But should it come, there 's one will die 

To save his native home ! 

FLORENCE VANE 

Philip Pendleton Cooke 

Published in The Gentleman's Magazine in 1839, while Poe was its 
editor. It was not personal in its address. 

I loved thee long and dearly, 

Florence Vane ; 
My life's bright dream and early 

Hath come again ; 
I renew in my fond vision 5 

My heart's dear pain, 
My hope and thy derision, 

Florence Vane ! 



26 SOUTHERN POEMS 

The ruin, lone and hoary, 

The ruin old, 10 

Where thou didst hark my story, 

At even told, — 
That spot — the hues Elysian 

Of sky and plain — 
I treasure in my vision, 15 

Florence Vane. 

Thou wast lovelier than the roses 

In their prime ; 
Thy voice excelled the closes 

Of sweetest rhyme ; 20 

Thy heart was as a river 

Without a main. 
Would I had loved thee never, 

Florence Vane ! 

But, fairest, coldest wonder 25 

Thy glorious clay 
Lieth the green sod under — 

Alas the day ! 
And it boots not to remember 

Thy disdain — 30 

To quicken love's pale ember, 

Florence Vane ! 

The lilies of the valley 

By young graves weep, 
The pansies love to dally 35 

Where maidens sleep : 
May their bloom, in beauty vying, 

Never wane 
Where thine earthly part is lying, 

Florence Vane ! 40 



THEODORE O'HARA 27 

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD 

Theodore O'Hara 

Read by its author when his comrades who had fallen in Mexico were 
buried in Frankfort, Kentucky, in 1847. 

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 

The soldier's last tattoo ; 
No more on life's parade shall meet 

That brave and fallen few. 
On Fame's eternal camping-ground 5 

Their silent tents are spread, 
And Glory guards, with solemn round, 

The bivouac of the dead. 

No rumor of the foe's advance 

Now swells upon the wind ; 10 

No troubled thought at midnight haunts 

Of loved ones left behind ; 
No vision of the morrow's strife 

The warrior's dream alarms ; 
No braying horn nor screaming fife 15 

At dawn shall call to arms. 

Their shivered swords are red with rust, 

Their plumed heads are bowed ; 
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, 

Is now their martial shroud. 20 

And plenteous funeral tears have washed 

The red stains from each brow, 
And the proud forms, by battle gashed, 

Are free from anguish now. 

The neighing troop, the flashing blade, 25 
The bugle's stirring blast, 



28 SOUTHERN POEMS 

The charge, the dreadful cannonade, 

The din and shout, are past ; 
Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal 

Shall thrill with fierce delight 30 

Those breasts that never more may feel 

The rapture of the fight. 

Like the fierce northern hurricane 

That sweeps this great plateau, 
Flushed with triumph yet to gain, 35 

Came down the serried foe. 1 
Who heard the thunder of the fray 

Break o'er the field beneath, 
Knew well the watchword of that day 

Was " Victory or death." 40 

Long had the doubtful conflict raged 

O'er all that stricken plain, 
For never fiercer fight had waged 

The vengeful blood of Spain ; 
And still the storm of battle blew, 45 

Still swelled the gory tide; 
Not long, our stout old chieftain 2 knew, 

Such odds his strength could bide. 

'T was in that hour his stern command 

Called to a martyr's grave 50 

The flower of his beloved land 

The nation's flag to save. 
By rivers of their fathers' gore 

His firstborn laurels grew, 
And well he deemed the sons would pour 55 

Their lives for glory too. 

1 General Santa Anna commanded 21,000 Mexicans. 

2 Zachary Taylor. 



THEODORE O'HARA 29 

Full many a norther's breath has swept 

O'er Angostura's plain — 
And long the pitying sky has wept 

Above its moklering slain. 60 

The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, 

Or shepherd's pensive lay, 
Alone awakes each sullen height 

That frowned o'er that dread fray. 

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, 1 65 

Ye must not slumber there, 
Where stranger steps and tongues resound 

Along the heedless air. 
Your own proud land's heroic soil 

Shall be your fitter grave ; 70 

She claims from War his richest spoil — 

The ashes of her brave. 

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, 

Far from the gory field ; 
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast 75 

On many a bloody shield ; 
The sunlight of their native sky 

Smiles sadly on them here, 
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 

The heroes' sepulcher. 80 

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead, 

Dear as the blood ye gave ; 
No impious footstep here shall tread 

The herbage of your grave ; 
Nor shall your glory be forgot 85 

While Fame her record keeps, 
Kentucky " is an Indian word meaning " Dark and Bloody 



Ground.' 



30 SOUTHERN POEMS 

Or Honor points the hallowed spot 
Where Valor proudly sleeps. 

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone 

In deathless song shall tell, 90 

When many a vanished age hath flown, 

The story how ye fell ; 
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, 

Nor Time's remorseless doom, 
Shall dim one ray of glory's light 95 

That gilds your glorious tomb. 



THE LONG AGO 1 

Philo Henderson 

Oh ! a wonderful stream is the river of Time, 

As it runs through the realm of tears, 
With a faultless rhythm, and musical rhyme, 
And a broader sweep, and a surge sublime, 

And blends with the ocean of years ! 5 

How the winters are drifting like flakes of snow, 

And summers like buds between, 
And the ears in the sheaf, — so they come and they 

go 
On the river's breast with its ebb and flow, 

As it glides in the shadow and sheen ! 10 

There 's a magical Isle in the river of Time 

Where the softest of airs are playing ; 
There 's a cloudless sky, and a tropical clime, 

1 This poem has been freely imitated, and several times con- 
fiscated. 



PHILO HENDERSON 31 

And a song as sweet as a vesper chime, 

And the Junes with the roses are staying. 15 

And the name of this Isle is the Long Ago, 

And we bury our treasures there, — 
There are brows of beauty, and bosoms of snow, 
There are heaps of dust, — but we loved them so ! 

There are trinkets, and tresses of hair. 20 

There are fragments of song that nobody sings, 

And a part of an infant's prayer ; 
There 's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings, 
There are broken vows and pieces of rings, 

And the garments she used to wear. 25 

There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore 

By the mirage is lifted in air, 
And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar, 
Sweet voices heard in the days gone before, 

When the wind down the river is fair. 30 

Oh ! remembered for aye be that blessed Isle, 

All the day of life till the night ; 
When the evening comes with its beautiful smile, 
And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile, 

May that " Greenwood " of soul be in sight ! 35 



32 SOUTHERN POEMS 

LITTLE GIFFEN 1 

Francis Orray Ticknor 

A true story of a boy whom Dr. Ticknor nursed back to life at 
Torch Hill, Georgia. 

Out of the focal and foremost fire, 

Out of the hospital walls as dire, 

Smitten of grapeshot and gangrene, 

Eighteenth battle and he sixteen — 

Specter such as you seldom see, 5 

Little Giffen of Tennessee. 

" Take him and welcome," the surgeon said ; 

" Not the doctor can help the dead ! " 
So we took him and brought him where 
The balm was sweet in our summer air ; 10 

And we laid him down on a wholesome bed ; 
Utter Lazarus, heel to head ! 

And we watched the war with abated breath, 

Skeleton boy against skeleton death ! 

Months of torture, how many such ! 15 

Weary weeks of the stick and crutch, — 

And still a glint in the steel-blue eye 

Told of a spirit that would n't die, 

And did n't ! Nay ! more ! in death's despite 
The crippled skeleton learned to write — 20 

" Dear mother ! " at first, of course, and then 
" Dear Captain ! " inquiring about the men. 

1 From Poems by Francis Orray Ticknor, collected and edited 
by Michell Cutliff Ticknor and issued by the Neale Publishing 
Company, New York. 



JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON 33 

Captain's answer : " Of eighty and five, 
Giffen and I are left alive." 

" Johnston 1 pressed at the front," they say ; — 25 

Little Giffen was up and away ! 

A tear, his first, as he bade good-by, 

Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye. 
" I '11 write, it' spared ! " There was news of fight, 

But none of Giffen — he did not write ! 30 

I sometimes fancy that were I King 

Of the courtly Knights of Arthur's ring, 

With the voice of the minstrel in mine ear 

And the tender legend that trembles here, 

I 'd give the best on his bended knee — 35 

The whitest soul of my chivalry — 

For Little Giffen of Tennessee. 



MUSIC IN CAMP 

John Reuben Thompson 

The contending armies were encamped on opposite sides of the 
Rappahannock River, near Fredericksburg, during the winter of 

1862-63. 

Two armies covered hill and plain, 

Where Rappahannock's waters 
Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain 

Of battle's recent slaughters. 

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents 5 

In meads of heavenly azure ; 

1 General Joseph E. Johnston, once commander of the Army 
of Northern Virginia. 



34 SOUTHERN POEMS 

And each dread gun of the elements 
Slept in its embrasure. 

The breeze so softly blew it made 

No forest leaf to quiver, 10 

And the smoke of the random cannonade 

Rolled slowly from the river. 

And now, where circling hills looked down 

With cannon grimly planted, 
O'er listless camp and silent town 15 

The golden sunset slanted. 

When on the fervid air there came 
A strain — now rich, now tender ; 

The music seemed itself aflame 

With day's departing splendor. 20 

A Federal band, which, eve and morn, 
Played measures brave and nimble, 

Had just struck up, with flute and horn 
And lively clash of cymbal. 

Down flocked the soldiers to the banks, 25 

Till, margined by its pebbles, 
One wooded shore was blue with " Yanks," 

And one was gray with "Rebels." 

Then all was still, and then the band, 

With movement light and tricksy, 30 

Made stream and forest, hill and strand, 
Reverberate with "Dixie." 

The conscious stream with burnished glow 
Went proudly o'er its pebbles, 



JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON 35 

But thrilled throughout its deepest flow 35 

With yelling of the Rebels. 

Again a pause, and then again 

The trumpets pealed sonorous, 
And " Yankee Doodle " was the strain 

To which the shore gave chorus. 40 

The laughing ripple shoreward flew, 

To kiss the shining pebbles ; 
Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue 

Defiance to the Rebels. 

And yet once more the bugle sang 45 

Above the stormy riot ; 
No shout upon the evening rang — 

There reigned a holy quiet. 

The sad, slow stream its noiseless flood 

Poured over the glistening pebbles ; 50 

All silent now the Yankees stood, 
And silent stood the Rebels. 

No unresponsive soul had heard 

That plaintive note's appealing, 
So deeply " Home, Sweet Home " had stirred 55 

The hidden founts of feeling. 

Or Blue, or Gray, the soldier sees, 

As by the wand of fairy, 
The cottage 'neath the live oak trees, 

The cabin by the prairie. 60 

Or cold, or warm, his native skies 
Bend in their beauty o'er him ; 



36 SOUTHERN POEMS 

Seen through the tear mist in his eyes, 
His loved ones stand before him. 



As fades the iris after rain 65 

In April's tearful weather, 
The vision vanished, as the strain 

And daylight died together. 

But memory, waked by music's art, 

Expressed in simplest numbers, 70 

Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart, 
Made light the Rebel's slumbers. 

And fair the form of music, shines, 

That bright celestial creature, 
Who still, 'mid war's embattled lines, 75 

Gave this one touch of Nature. 



CARCASSONNE » 
John Reuben Thompson 

" I 'm growing old, I 've sixty years ; 

I 've labored all my life in vain : 
In all that time of hopes and fears 

I 've failed my dearest wish to gain. 
I see full well that here below 5 

Bliss unalloyed there is for none. 
My prayer will ne'er fulfilment know 

I never have seen Carcassonne, 

I never have seen Carcassonne ! 

1 No finer translation of Gustav Nadaud's famous poem is 
known. 



JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON 37 

44 You see the city from the hill, 10 

It lies beyond the mountains blue, 
And yet to reach it one must still 

Five long and weary leagues pursue, 
And to return as many more ! 

Ah ! had the vintage plenteous grown ! 15 

The grape withheld its yellow store ! 

I shall not look on Carcassonne, 

I shall not look on Carcassonne ! 

44 They tell me every day is there 

Not more or less than Sunday gay : 20 

In shining robes and garments fair 

The people walk upon their way. 
One gazes there on castle walls 

As grand as those of Bab}don, 
A bishop and two generals ! 25 

I do not know fair Carcassonne, 

I do not know fair Carcassonne ! 

44 The vicar 'a right ; he says that we 
Are ever wayward, weak and blind, 

He tells us in his homily 30 

Ambition ruins all mankind ; 

Yet could I there two days have spent 
While still the autumn sweetly shone, 

Ah me ! I might have died content 

When I had looked on Carcassonne, 35 

When I had looked on Carcassonne ! 

44 Thy pardon, Father, I beseech, 
In this my prayer if I append : 
One something sees beyond his reach 

From childhood to his journey's end. 40 



38 SOUTHERN POEMS 

My wife, our little boy Aignon, 
Have traveled even to Narbonne ; 

My grandchild has seen Perpignon, 
And I have not seen Carcassonne, 
And I have not seen Carcassonne ! " 45 

So crooned one day, close by Limoux, 

A peasant double-bent with age ; 
" Rise up, my friend," said I ; " with you 

I '11 go upon this pilgrimage." 
We left next morning his abode, 50 

But (Heaven forgive him) halfway on, 
The old man died upon the road ; 

He never gazed on Carcassonne, 

Each mortal has his Carcassonne ! 



THE WINDOW-PANES AT BRANDON 1 

John Reuben Thompson 

As within the old mansion the holiday throng 

Reassembles in beauty and grace, 
And some eye looking out of the window by chance, 

These memorial records may trace — 
How the past, like a swift-coming haze from the sea, 

In an instant surrounds us once more, 6 

While the shadowy figures of those we have loved, 

All distinctly are seen on the shore ! 

Through the vista of years, stretching dimly away, 
We but look, and a vision behold ... 10 

1 Upon the window-panes at Brandon, a well-known mansion 
on the James River in Virginia, names of many guests were cut 
with a diamond. 



JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON 39 

Like some magical picture the sunset reveals 

With its colors of crimson and gold, 
All suffused with the glow of the hearth's ruddy 
blaze, 

From beneath the gay " mistletoe bough,'' 
There are faces that break into smiles as divinely 15 

As any that beam on us now. 

While the Old Year departing strides ghost-like along 

O'er the hills that are dark with the storm, 
To the New the brave beaker is filled to the brim, 

And the play of affection is warm : 20 

Look once more ... as the garlanded Spring reap- 
pears, 

In her footsteps we welcome a train 
Of fair women, whose eyes are as bright as the gem 

That has cut their dear names on the pane. 

From the canvas of Vandyke or Kneller that hangs 25 

On the old-fashioned wainscoted wall, 
Stately ladies, the favored of poets, look down 

On the guests and the revel and all ; 
But their beauty, though wedded to eloquent verse, 

And though rendered immortal by Art, 30 

Yet outshines not the beauty that, breathing below, 

In a moment takes captive the heart. 

Many winters have since frosted over these panes 

With the tracery work of the rime ; 
Many Aprils have brought back the birds to the 
lawn 35 

From some far-away tropical clime : 
But the guests of the season, alas ! where are they ? 

Some, the shores of the stranger have trod, 



40 SOUTHERN POEMS 

And some names have been long ago carved on the 
stone, 
Where they sweetly rest under the sod. 40 

How uncertain the record ! the hand of a child 

In its innocent sport, unawares, 
May, at any time, lucklessly shatter the pane, 

And thus cancel the story it bears ; 
Still a portion, at least, shall uninjured remain 45 

Unto trustier tablets consigned, 
The fond names that survive in the memory of friends 

Who yet linger a season behind. 

Recollect, O young soul, with ambition inspired ! 

Let the moral be read as we pass ; 50 

Recollect, the illusory tablets of fame 

Have been ever as brittle as glass ; 
Oh ! be not content with the name thus inscribed, 

For as well may you trace it in dust; 
But resolve to record it, where long it shall stand, 55 

In the hearts of the good and the just. 



BEFORE DEATH 1 

Margaret Junkin Preston 

I 
How much would I care for it, could I know 
That when I am under the grass or snow, 
The ravelled garment of life's brief day 
Folded, and quietly laid away ; 

1 The three poems by Margaret Junkin Preston are printed by 
courtesy of Little, Brown and Company. 



MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON 41 

The spirit let loose from mortal bars, 5 

And somewhere away among the stars : 

How much would you think it would matter then 

What praise was lavished upon me, when, 

Whatever might be its stint or store, 

It neither could help nor harm me more ? 10 

II 
If midst of my toil they had but thought 
To stretch a finger, I would have caught 
Gladly such aid, to bear me through 
Some bitter duty I had to do : 

And when it was done, had I but heard 15 

One breath of applause, one cheering word, 
One cry of " Courage ! " amid the strife, 
So weighted for me, with death or life, 
How would it have nerved my soul to strain 
Through the whirl of the coming surge again ! 20 

III 
What use for the rope, if it be not flung 
Till the swimmer's grasp to the rock has clung? 
What help in a comrade's bugle-blast 
When the peril of Alpine heights is past ? 
What need that the spurring paean roll 25 

When the runner is safe beyond the goal? 
What worth is eulogy's blandest breath 
When whispered in ears that are hushed in death ? 
No ! no ! if you have but a word of cheer, 
Speak it, while I am alive to hear ! 30 



42 SOUTHERN POEMS 

THE SHADE OF THE TREES 
Margaret Junkin Preston 

44 Let us pass over the river and rest under the shade of the trees " 
were the last words of Stonewall Jackson in 1863. Mrs. Preston was 
General Jackson's sister-in-law. 

What are the thoughts that are stirring his breast? 

What is the mystical vision he sees ? 
" Let us pass over the river and rest 

Under the shade of the trees." 

Has he grown sick of his toils and his tasks ? 5 

Sighs the worn spirit for respite or ease? 

Is it a moment's cool halt that he asks 
Under the shade of the trees ? 

Is it the gurgle of waters whose flow 

Ofttime has come to him borne on the breeze, 10 
Memory listens to, lapsing so low, 

Under the shade of the trees ? 

Nay — though the rasp of the flesh was so sore, 
Faith, that had yearnings far keener than these, 

Saw the soft sheen of the Thitherward Shore, 15 

Under the shade of the trees ; — 

Caught the high psalms of ecstatic delight, 

Heard the harps harping like soundings of seas, 

Watched earth's assoiled ones walking in white 

Under the shade of the trees. 20 

O, was it strange he should pine for release, 

Touched to the soul with such transports as these, 



MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON 43 

He who so needed the balsam of peace, 
Under the shade of the trees ? 

Yes, it was noblest for him — it was best 25 

(Questioning naught of our Father's decrees) 

There to pass over the river and rest 
Under the shade of the trees ! 



GONE FORWARD 
Margaret Junkin Preston 

Among the broken sentences uttered by General Lee on his death- 
bed (1870) was this : " Let the tent be struck, the General has gone 
forward." 

Yes, "Let the tent be struck" : victorious morning 
Through every crevice flashes in a day 

Magnificent beyond all earth's adorning : 

The night is over ; wherefore should he stay ? 
And wherefore should our voices choke to say, 5 
" The General has gone forward " ? 

Life's foughten field not once beheld surrender ; 

But with superb endurance, present, past, 
Our pure commander, lofty, simple, tender, 

Through good, through ill, held his high purpose 
fast, 10 

Wearing his armor spotless, — till at last 
Death gave the final " Forward ! " 

All hearts grew sudden palsied : Yet what said he 
Thus summoned ? — " Let the tent he struck ! " — 
For when 
Did call of duty fail to find him ready 15 



44 SOUTHERN POEMS 

Nobly to do his work in sight of men, 
For God's and for his country's sake — and then 
To watch, wait, or go forward ? 

We will not weep, — we dare not! Such a story 
As his large life writes on the century's years, 20 

Should crowd our bosoms with a flush of glory, 
That manhood's type, supremest that appears 
To-day, he shows the ages. Nay, no tears 
Because he has gone forward ! 

Gone forward? — whither? Where the marshalled 

legions, 25 

Christ's well-worn soldiers, from their conflicts 

cease, — 

Where Faith's true Eed-Cross Knights repose in 

regions 

Thick-studded with the calm, white tents of 

peace, — 
Thither, right joyful to accept release, 

The General has gone forward ! 30 



WASHINGTON — PATER PATRLE 1 

James Barron Hope 

Achilles came from Homer's Jove-like brain, 
Pavilioned 'mid his ships where Thetis trod ; 
But he whose image dominates this plain 
Came from the hand of God ! 

1 This is an excerpt from " Arms and the Man," a poem recited 
on the One Hundredth Anniversary of the surrender of Lord 
Cornwallis at Yorktown, Virginia. This and the poem following 
are printed by courtesy of Mrs. Janie Hope Marr. 



JAMES BARRON HOPE 45 

Yet of his life, which shall all time adorn, 5 

I dare not sing ; to try the theme would be 
To drink as 't were that Scandinavian Horn 
Whose tip was in the Sea. 

I bow my head and go' upon my ways, 

Who tells that story can but gild the gold — 10 
Could I pile Alps on Apennines of praise 
The tale would not be told. 

Not his the blade which lyric fables say 

Cleft Pyrenees from ridge to nether bed, 
But his the sword which cleared the Sacred Way 15 
For Freedom's feet to tread. 

Not Caesar's genius nor Napoleon's skill 

Gave him proud mast'ry o'er the trembling earth; 
But great in honesty, and sense and will — 

He was the " man of worth." 20 

He knew not North, nor South, nor West, nor East : 

Childless himself, Father of States he stood, 
Strong and sagacious as a Knight turned Priest, 
And vowed to deeds of good. 

Compared with all Earth's heroes I may say 25 

He was, with even half his virtues hid, 
Greater in what his hand refrained than they 
Were great in what they did. 

And thus his image dominates all time, 

Uplifted like the everlasting dome 30 

Which rises in a miracle sublime 
Above eternal Rome. 



46 SOUTHERN POEMS 

On Rome's once blooming plain where'er we stray 

That dome majestic rises on the view, 
Its Cross a-glow with every wandering ray 35 

That shines along the Blue. 

So his vast image shadows all the lands, 

So holds forever Man's adoring eye, 
And o'er the Union which he left it stands 

Our Cross against the skv ! 40 



OUR ANGLO-SAXON TONGUE 

James Barron Hope 

Good is the Saxon speech ! clear, short, and strong, 

Its clean-cut words, fit both for prayer and song ; 

Good is this tongue for all the needs of life ; 

Good for sweet words with friend, or child, or wife. 

Seax — short sword — and like a sword its sway 5 
Hews out a path 'mid all the forms of speech, 
For in itself it hath the power to teach 

Itself, while many tongues slow fade away. 

'T is good for laws ; for vows of youth and maid ; 
Good for the preacher ; or shrewd folk in trade ; 10 
Good for sea-calls when loud the rush of spray ; 
Good for war-cries where men meet hilt to hilt, 
And man's best blood like new- trod wine is spilt, — 
Good for all times, and good for what thou wilt ! 



HENRY TIMROD 47 

A COMMON THOUGHT i 

Henry Timrod 

Somewhere on this earthly planet 

In the dust of flowers to be, 
In the dewdrop, in the sunshine, 

Sleeps a solemn day for me. 

At this wakeful hour of midnight 5 

I behold it dawn in mist, 
And I hear a sound of sobbing 

Through the darkness — hist 1 oh, hist ! 

In a dim and murky chamber, 

I am breathing life away ; 10 

Some one draws a curtain softly, 

And I watch the broadening day. 

As it purples in the zenith, 

As it brightens on the lawn, 
There 's a hush of death about me, 15 

And a whisper, " He is gone ! " 2 

1 The three following poems by Henry Timrod are printed by 
courtesy of the B. F. Johnson Publishing Company, 

2 A poem strangely prophetic of the manner of the poet's 
death. 



48 SOUTHERN POEMS 

ODE 

Henry Timrod 

Sung on the occasion of decorating the graves of the Confederate Dead t 
at Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, South Carolina, 1867. 

I 

Sleep sweetly in your humble graves, 
Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause ; 

Though yet no marble column craves 
The pilgrim here to pause. 

II 

In seeds of laurel in the earth 5 

The blossom of your fame is blown, 

And somewhere, waiting for its birth, 
The shaft is in the stone ! 

Ill 
Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years 

Which keep in trust your storied tombs, 10 
Behold ! your sisters bring their tears, 

And these memorial blooms. 

IV 
Small tributes ! but your shades will smile 

More proudly on these wreaths to-day, 
Than when some cannon-moulded pile 15 

Shall overlook this bay. 

V 
Stoop, angels, hither from the skies ! 

There is no holier spot of ground 
Than where defeated valor lies, 

By mourning beauty crowned ! 20 



HENRY TIMROD 49 

THE COTTON BOLL 

Henry Timrod 

This poem was written during the war between the States. 

While I recline 

At ease beneath 

This immemorial pine, 

Small sphere ! 

(By dusky fingers brought this morning here 5 

And shown with boastful smiles), 

I turn thy cloven sheath, 

Through which the soft white fibers peer, 

That, with their gossamer bands, 

Unite, like love, the sea-divided lands, 10 

And slowly, thread by thread, 

Draw forth the folded strands, 

Than which the trembling line, 

By whose frail help yon startled spider fled 

Down the tall spear grass from his swinging bed, 15 

Is scarce more fine ; 

And as the tangled skein 

Unravels in my hands, 

Betwixt me and the noonday light, 

A veil seems lifted, and for miles and miles 20 

The landscape broadens on my sight, 

As, in the little boll, there lurked a spell 

Like that which, in the ocean shell, 

With mystic sound, 

Breaks down the narrow walls that hem us round, 25 

And turns some city lane 

Into the restless main, 

With all his capes and isles ! 



50 SOUTHERN POEMS 

Yonder bird, 

Which floats, as if at rest, 30 

In those blue tracts above the thunder, where 

No vapors cloud the stainless air, 

And never sound is heard, 

Unless at such rare time 

When, from the City of the Blest, 35 

Rings down some golden chime, 

Sees not from his high place 

So vast a cirque of summer space 

As widens round me in one mighty field, 

Which, rimmed by seas and sands, 40 

Doth hail its earliest daylight in the beams 

Of gray Atlantic dawns ; 

And, broad as realms made up of many lands, 

Is lost afar 

Behind the crimson hills and purple lawns 45 

Of sunset, among plains which roll their streams 

Against the Evening Star! 

And lo ! 

To the remotest point of sight, 

Although I gaze upon no waste of snow, 50 

The endless field is white ; 

And the whole landscape glows, 

For many a shining league away, 

With such accumulated light 

As Polar lands would flash beneath a tropic day ! 55 

Nor lack there (for the vision grows, 

And the small charm within my hands — 

More potent even than the fabled one, 

Which oped whatever golden mystery 

Lay hid in fairy wood or magic vale, 60 

The curious ointment of the Arabian tale — 

Beyond all mortal sense 



HENRY TIMROD 51 

Doth stretch my sight's horizon, and I see, 

Beneath its simple influence, 

As if with Uriel's crown, 65 

I stood in some great temple of the Sun, 

And looked, as Uriel, down !) 

Nor lack there pastures rich and fields all green 

With all the common gifts of God, 

For temperate airs and torrid sheen 70 

Weave Edens of the sod ; 

Through lands which look one sea of billowy gold 

Broad rivers wind their devious ways ; 

A hundred isles in their embraces fold 

A hundred luminous bays ; 75 

And through yon purple haze 

Vast mountains lift their plumed peaks cloud-crowned ; 

And, save where up their sides the plowman creeps, 

An unhewn forest girds them grandly round, 

In whose dark shades a future navy sleeps ! 80 

Ye Stars, which, though unseen, yet with me gaze 

Upon this loveliest fragment of the earth ! 

Thou Sun, that kindlest all thy gentlest rays 

Above it, as to light a favorite hearth ! 

Ye Clouds, that in your temples in the west 85 

See nothing brighter than its humblest flowers ! 

And you, ye Winds, that on the ocean's breast 

Are kissed to coolness ere ye reach its bowers ! 

Bear witness with me in my song of praise, 

And tell the world that, since the world began, 90 

No fairer land hath fired a poet's lays, 

Or given a home to man ! 

But these are charms already widely blown ! 

His be the meed whose pencil's trace 

Hath touched our very swamps with grace, 95 



52 SOUTHERN POEMS 

And round whose tuneful way 

All Southern laurels bloom ; 

The Poet of "The Woodlands," 1 unto whom 

Alike are known 

The flute's low breathing and the trumpet's tone, 100 

And the soft west wind's sighs ; 

But who shall utter all the debt, 

O land wherein all powers are met 

That bind a people's heart, 

The world doth owe thee at this day, 105 

And which it never can repay, 

Yet scarcely deigns to own ! 

Where sleeps the poet who shall fitly sing 

The source wherefrom doth spring 

That mighty commerce which, confined 110 

To the mean channels of no selfish mart, 

Goes out to every shore 

Of this broad earth, and throngs the sea with ships 

That bear no thunders ; hushes hungry lips 

In alien lands ; 115 

Joins with a delicate web remotest strands ; 

And gladdening rich and poor, 

Doth gild Parisian domes, 

Or feed the cottage smoke of English homes, 

And only bounds its blessings by mankind ? 120 

In offices like these thy mission lies, 

My Country ! and it shall not end 

As long as rain shall fall and Heaven bend 

In blue above thee. Though thy foes be hard 

And cruel as their weapons, it shall guard 125 

Thy hearthstones as a bulwark ; make thee great 

In white and bloodless state ; 

1 William Gilmore Simtns. His home near Charleston, South 
Carolina, was called " The Woodlands." 



HENRY TIMROD 53 

And haply, as the years increase — 

Still working through its humbler reach 

With that large wisdom which the ages teach — 130 

Revive the half-dead dream of universal peace ! 

As men who labor in that mine 

Of Cornwall, hollowed out beneath the bed 

Of ocean, when a storm rolls overhead, 

Hear the dull booming of the world of brine 135 

Above them, and a mighty muffled roar 

Of winds and waters, yet toil calmly on, 

And split the rock, and pile the massive ore, 

Or carve a niche or shape the arched roof; 

So I, as calmly, weave my woof 140 

Of song, chanting the days to come, 

Unsilenced, though the quiet summer air 

Stirs with the bruit of battles, and each dawn 

Wakes from its starry silence to the hum 

Of many gathering armies. Still, 145 

In that we sometimes hear, 

Upon the Northern winds, the voice of woe 

Not wholly drowned in triumph, though I know 

The end must crown us, and a few brief years 

Dry all our tears, 150 

I may not sing too gladly. To thy will 

Resigned, O Lord ! we cannot all forget 

That there is much even Victory must regret. 

And, therefore, not too long 

From the great burthen of our country's wrong 155 

Delay our just release ! 

And, if it may be, save 

These sacred fields of peace 

From stain of patriot or of hostile blood ! 

O, help us, Lord ! to roll the crimson flood 160 

Back on its course, and while our banners wing 



54 SOUTHERN POEMS 

Northward, strike with us ! till the Goth shall cling 
To his own blasted altar stones, and crave 
Mercy ; and we shall grant it, and dictate 
The lenient future of his fate 165 

There, where some rotting ships and crumbling quays 
Shall one day mark the Port which ruled the Western 
seas. 1 



MY STUDY 2 

Paul Hamilton Hayne 

Written before his mansion in Charleston, South Carolina, was de- 
stroyed by fire. It was published in 1859. 

This is my world ! within these narrow walls, 

I own a princely service. The hot care 

And tumult of our frenzied life are here 

But as a ghost and echo ; what befalls 

In the far mart to me is less than naught ; 5 

I walk the fields of quiet Arcadies, 

And wander by the brink of hoary seas, 

Calmed to the tendance of untroubled thought ; 

Or if a livelier humor should enhance 

The slow-time pulse, 't is not for present strife, 10 

The sordid zeal with which our age is rife, 

Its mammon conflicts crowned by fraud or chance, 

But gleamings of the lost, heroic life, 

Flashed through the gorgeous vistas of romance. 

1 New York, considered by many Southerners at that time as 
an unjust competitor for trade. 

3 The poems by Paul Hamilton Hayne are printed by courtesy 
of William H. Hayne, the son of the author. 



PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 55 

THE PINE'S MYSTERY 

Paul Hamilton Hayne 

" Copse Hill," Hayne's Georgia home after his home in Charleston 
was sacrificed to war, was surrounded by pines. 

I 

Listen ! the sombre foliage of the Pine, 
A swart Gitana * of the woodland trees, 

Is answering what we may but half divine 
To those soft whispers of the twilight breeze ! 

II 
Passion and mystery murmur through the leaves, 5 

Passion and mystery, touched by deathless pain. 
Whose monotone of long, low anguish grieves 

For something lost that shall not live again ! 

THE WILL AND THE WING 

Paul Hamilton Hayne 

To have the will to soar, but not the wings, 

Eyes fixed forever on a starry height, 
Whence stately shapes of grand imaginings 

Flash down the splendors of imperial light ; 

And yet to lack the charm that makes them ours, 5 
The obedient vassals of that conquering spell, 

Whose omnipresent and ethereal powers 
Encircle Heaven, nor fear to enter Hell ; 

This is the doom of Tantalus — the thirst 

For beauty's balmy fount to quench the fires 10 
1 Gitana, a gypsy dancer. 



56 SOUTHERN POEMS 

Of the wild passion that our souls have nurst 
In hopeless promptings — unfulfilled desires. 

Yet would I rather in the outward state 
Of Song's immortal temple lay me down, 

A beggar basking by that radiant gate, 15 

Than bend beneath the haughtiest empire's crown ! 

For sometimes, through the bars, my ravished eyes 
Have caught brief glimpses of a life divine, 

And seen afar, mysterious rapture rise 

Beyond the veil that guards the inmost shrine. 20 

A DREAM OF THE SOUTH WINDS 
Paul Hamilton Hayne 

O FRESH, how fresh and fair 
Through the crystal gulfs of air, 
The fairy South Wind floateth on her subtle wings of 
balm! 

And the green earth lapped in bliss, 
To the magic of her kiss 5 

Seems yearning upward fondly through the golden- 
crested calm! 

From the distant Tropic strand, 
Where the billows, bright and bland, 
Go creeping, curling round the palms with sweet, 
faint under-tune, 

From its fields of purpling flowers 10 

Still wet with fragrant showers, 
The happy South Wind lingering sweeps the royal 
blooms of June. 



PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 57 

All heavenly fancies rise 
On the perfume of her sighs, 
Which steep the inmost spirit in a languor rare and 
fine, 15 

And a peace more pure than sleep's 
Unto dim, half-conscious deeps, 
Transports me, lulled and dreaming, on its twilight 
tides divine. 

Those dreams ! ah me ! the splendor, 
So mystical and tender, 20 

Wherewith like soft heat-lightnings they gird their 
meaning round, 

And those waters, calling, calling, 
With a nameless charm enthralling, 
Like the ghost of music melting on a rainbow spray 
of sound ! 

Touch, touch me not, nor wake me, 25 

Lest grosser thoughts o'ertake me, 
From earth receding faintly with her dreary din and 
jars — 

What viewless arms caress me? 
What whispered voices bless me, 
With welcomes dropping dewlike from the weird and 
wondrous stars? 30 

Alas ! dim, dim, and dimmer 
Grows the preternatural glimmer 
Of that trance the South Wind brought me on her 
subtle wings of balm, 

For behold ! its spirit flieth, 
And its fairy murmur dieth, 35 

And the silence closing round me is a dull and soul- 
less calm ! 



58 SOUTHERN POEMS 

IN HARBOR 1 
Paul Hamilton Hayne 

I think it is over, over, 

I think it is over at last, 
Voices of foeman and lover, 

The sweet and the bitter have passed : 
Life, like a tempest of ocean 5 

Hath outblown its ultimate blast; 
There's but a faint sobbing seaward 
While the calm of the tide deepens leeward, 
And behold ! like the welcoming quiver 
Of heart-pulses throbbed thro' the river, 10 

Those lights in the harbor at last, 

The heavenly harbor at last ! 

I feel it is over, over! 

For the winds and the waters surcease; 
Ah ! — few were the days of the rover 15 

That smiled in the beauty of peace ! 
And distant and dim was the omen 

That hinted redress or release : 
From the ravage of life, and its riot 
What marvel I yearn for the quiet 20 

Which bides in the harbor at last? 
For the lights with their welcoming quiver 
That throbbed through the sanctified river 

Which girdles the harbor at last, 

This heavenly harbor at last? 25 

I know it is over, over, 
I know it is over at last ! 

1 Among his very latest poems. 



JAMES RYDER RANDALL 59 

Down sail ! the sheathed anchor uncover, 

For the stress of the voyage has passed : 
Life, like a tempest of ocean 30 

Hath outbreathed its ultimate blast ; 
There 's but a faint sobbing seaward ; 
While the calm of the tide deepens leeward ; 
And behold ! like the welcoming quiver 
Of heart-pulses throbbed thro' the river, 35 

Those lights in the harbor at last, 

The heavenly harbor at last ! 



MARYLAND, MY MARYLAND i 

James Ryder Randall 

Written in Louisiana when the author heard of the clash between 
the Massachusetts troops and the citizens of his native city, Baltimore,, 
April 19, 1861. The poem was written on April 23, 1861. 

The despot's heel is on thy shore, 

Maryland ! 
His torch is at thy temple door, 

Maryland ! 
Avenge the patriotic gore 5 

That flecked the streets of Baltimore, 
And be the battle queen of yore, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Hark to an exiled son's appeal, 

Maryland ! 10 

My Mother State, to thee I kneel, 

Maryland ! 

1 For a full account of this poem, see Introduction to Poems 
of James Ryder Randall, edited by Matthew Page Andrews. 



60 SOUTHERN POEMS 

Eor life and death, for woe and weal, 
Thy peerless chivalry reveal, 
And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, 15 
Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Thou wilt not cower in the dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy beaming sword shall never rust, 

Maryland ! 20 

Remember Carroll's J sacred trust, 
Remember Howard's 2 warlike thrust, 
And all thy slumberers with the just, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Come! 'tis the red dawn of the day, 25 

Maryland ! 
Come with thy panoplied array, 

Maryland ! 
With Ringgold's 3 spirit for the fray, 
With Watson's 4 blood at Monterey, 30 

With fearless Lowe 5 and dashing May, 6 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Dear Mother ! burst the tyrant's chain, 

Maryland ! 
Virginia should not call in vain, 35 

Maryland ! 

1 Carroll was a delegate to the Continental Congress that 
framed the Declaration of Independence. 

2 Howard, Lieutenant-Colonel at the hattle of Cowpens. 

3 Ringgold, killed at Palo Alto in the Mexican War. 

4 Watson, Colonel in the Mexican War and killed at Monte- 
rey. 

5 Lowe, a soldier in the Mexican War and later Governor of 
Maryland. 

6 May, a leader at the battle of Monterey. 



JAMES RYDER RANDALL 61 

She meets her sisters on the plain — 
" Sic semper!" 1 'tis the proud refrain 
That baffles minions back amain, 

Maryland ! 40 

Arise in majesty again, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Come ! for thy shield is bright and strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come ! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, 45 

Maryland ! 
Come to thine own heroic throng 
Walking with Liberty along, 
And chant thy dauntless slogan-song, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 50 

I see the blush upon thy cheek, 

Maryland ! 
For thou wast ever bravely meek, 

Maryland ! 
But lo ! there surges forth a shriek, 55 

From hill to hill, from creek to creek, 
Potomac calls to Chesapeake, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, 

Maryland ! 60 

Thou wilt not crook to his control, 

Maryland ! 
Better the fire upon thee roll, 
Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, 
Than crucifixion of the soul, 65 

Maryland, my Maryland! 
1 Sic semper tyrannis, Virginia's motto. 



62 SOUTHERN POEMS 

I hear the distant thunder hum, 

Maryland ! 
The Old Line bugle, fife, and drum, 

Maryland ! 70 

She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb ; 
Huzza ! she spurns the Northern scum ! 
She breathes — she burns ! she '11 come ! she '11 
come! 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

THE CONQUERED BANNER * 
Abram J. Ryan 

This tribute to the Confederate flag- was published in the Banner 

of the South, March, 1868. 

Furl that Banner, for 't is weary ; 
Round its staff 't is drooping dreary ; 

Furl it, fold it, it is best ; 
For there 's not a man to wave it, 
And there 's not a sword to save it, 5 

And there 's not one left to lave it 
In the blood which heroes gave it ; 
And its foes now scorn and brave it ; 

Furl it, hide it — let it rest ! 

Take that Banner down ! 't is tattered ; 10 

Broken is its staff and shattered ; 
And the valiant hosts are scattered 

Over whom it floated high. 
O ! 't is hard for us to fold it ! 
Hard to think there 's none to hold it ; 15 

1 The four following copyrighted poems by Abram J. Ryan 
are printed by courtesy of P. J. Kenedy and Sons, New York. 



ABRAM J. RYAN 63 

Hard that those who once unrolled it 
Now must furl it with a sigh. 

Furl that Banner ! furl it sadly ! 

Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, 

And ten thousands wildly, madly, 20 

Swore it should forever wave ; 
Swore that foeman's sword should never 
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, 
Till that flag should float forever 

O'er their freedom or their grave ! 25 

Furl it ! for the hands that grasped it, 
And the hearts that fondly clasped it, 

Cold and dead are lying low ; 
And that Banner — it is trailing! 
While around it sounds the wailing 30 

Of its people in their woe. 

For, though conquered, they adore it ! 
Love the cold, dead hands that bore it ! 
Weep for those who fell before it ! 
Pardon those who trailed and tore it ! 35 

But, O ! wildly they deplore it, 
Now who furl and fold it so. 

Furl that Banner ! True, 't is gory, 

Yet 't is wreathed around with glory, 

And 't will live in song and story, 40 

Though its folds are in the dust! 
For its fame on brightest pages, 
Penned by poets and by sages, 
Shall go sounding down the ages — 

Furl its folds though now we must. 45 



64 SOUTHERN POEMS 

Furl that Banner, softly, slowly ! 
Treat it gently — it is holy — 

For it droops above the dead. 
Touch it not — unfold it never, 
Let it droop there, furled forever, 50 

For its people's hopes are fled ! 



THE SWORD OF LEE 
Abram J. Ryan 

Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright, 

Flashed the sword of Lee ! * 
Far in front of the deadly fight, 
High o'er the brave in the cause of Right, 
Its stainless sheen, like a beacon light, 5 

Led us to victory. 

Out of its scabbard, where full long 

It slumbered peacefully, 
Roused from its rest by the battle's song, 
Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong, 10 

Guarding the right, avenging the wrong, 

Gleamed the sword of Lee. 

Forth from its scabbard, high in air 

Beneath Virginia's sky — 
And they who saw it gleaming there, 15 

1 Robert E. Lee was born at " Stratford," Westmoreland 
County, Virginia, January 19, 1807; graduated from the United 
States Military Academy, of which he was later (1852) Super- 
intendent; in 1861 was offered command of the Federal Army, 
but resigned his commission and later joined the Confederacy ; 
surrendered his army on April 9, 18G5; died at Lexington, Vir- 
ginia, on October 12, 1870. 



ABRAM J. RYAN 65 

And knew who bore it, knelt to swear 
That where that sword led they would dare 
To follow — and to die. 

Out of its scabbard ! Never hand 

Waved sword from stain as free ; 20 

Nor purer sword led braver band, 
Nor braver bled for a brighter land, 
Nor brighter land had a cause so grand, 

Nor cause a chief like Lee ! 

Forth from its scabbard! How we prayed 25 

That sword might victor be ! 
And when our triumph was delayed, 
And many a heart grew sore afraid, 
We still hoped on while gleamed the blade 

Of noble Robert Lee. 30 

Forth from its scabbard all in vain 
Bright flashed the sword of Lee ; 
'T is shrouded now in its sheath again, 
It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain, 
Defeated, yet without a stain, 35 

Proudly and peacefully. 

A LAND WITHOUT RUINS 

Abram J. Ryan 

A land without ruins is a land without memories — a land without 
memories is a land without history. A land that wears a laurel crown 
may be fair to see ; but twine a few sad cypress leaves around the 
brow of any land, and be that land barren, beautiless, and bleak, it 
becomes lovely in its consecrated coronet of sorrow, and it wins the 
sympathy of the heart and of history. Crowns of roses fade — crowns 
of thorns endure. Calvaries and crucifixions take deepest hold of hu- 



66 SOUTHERN POEMS 

manity — the triumphs of might are transient — they pass and are 
forgotten — the sufferings of right are graven deepest on the chronicle 
of nations. 

Yes, give me the land where the ruins are spread, 
And the living tread light on the hearts of the dead ; 
Yes, give me a land that is blest by the dust, 
And bright with the deeds of the down-trodden just. 
Yes, give me the land where the battle's red blast 5 
Has flashed to the future the fame of the past ; 
Yes, give me the land that hath legends and lays 
That tell of the memories of long vanished days : 
Yes, give me a land that hath story and song ! 
Enshrine the strife of the right with the wrong! 10 
Yes, give me a land with a grave in each spot, 
And names in the graves that shall not be forgot ; 
Yes, give me the land of the wreck and the tomb ; 
There is grandeur in graves — there is glory in gloom ; 
For out of the gloom future brightness is born, 15 
As after the night comes the sunrise of morn ; 
And the graves of the dead with the grass overgrown 
May yet form the footstool of liberty's throne, 
And each single wreck in the war-path of night, 
Shall yet be a rock in the temple of right. 20 

BETTER THAN GOLD 

Abram J. Ryan 

Better than grandeur, better than gold, 

Than rank and titles a thousand fold, 

Is a healthy body and a mind at ease, 

And simple pleasures that always please, 

A heart that can feel for another's woe, 5 

With sympathies large enough to enfold 

All men as brothers, is better than gold. 



ABRAM J. RYAN 67 

Better than gold is a conscience clear, 

Though toiling for bread in an humble sphere, 

Doubly blessed with content and health, 10 

Untried by the lusts and cares of wealth, 

Lowly living and lofty thought 

Adorn and ennoble a poor man's cot ; 

For mind and morals in nature's plan 

Are the genuine tests of a gentleman. 15 

Better than gold is the sweet repose 

Of the sons of toil when the labors close ; 

Better than gold is the poor man's sleep, 

And the balm that drops on his slumbers deep 

Bring sleeping draughts on the downy bed, 20 

Where luxury pillows its aching head, 

The toiler simple opiate deems 

A shorter route to the land of dreams. 

Better than gold is a thinking mind, 

That in the realm of books can find 25 

A treasure surpassing Australian ore, 

And live with the great and good of yore. 

The sage's lore and the poet's lay, 

The glories of empires passed away ; 

The world's great dream will thus unfold 30 

And yield a pleasure better than gold. 

Better than gold is a peaceful home 

Where all the fireside characters come, 

The shrine of love, the heaven of life, 

Hallowed by mother, or sister, or wife. 35 

However humble the home may be, 

Or tried with sorrow by heaven's decree, 

The blessings that never were bought or sold, 

And centre there, are better than gold. 



68 SOUTHERN POEMS 

ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC 
TO-NIGHT 1 

" All quiet along- the Potomac," they say, 

" Except now and then a stray picket 
Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro, 

By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 
'T is nothing — a private or two, now and then, 5 

Will not count in the news of the battle ; 
Not an officer lost — only one of the men, 

Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle." 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, 

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming ; 10 

1 This famous poem is accredited to Ethelinda (Elliott) 
Beers, " Ethel Lynn Beers " (1827-79) and is contained in a 
volume of 1879 entitled All's Quiet Along the Potomac, and Other 
Poems. The internal evidence points to authorship by a soldier, 
not by a woman, and by some one acquainted with the locality and 
conditions, not by an absentee ; but the direct evidence is more 
significant. To quote Dr. C. Alphonso Smith {The Library of 
Southern Literature, vol. 14, p. 6083) : "The evidence seems 
conclusive, however, for Thaddeus Oliver, of Twiggs County, 
Georgia. The poem was first published unsigned on October 21, 
1861, ' in a Northern newspaper.' In Harper's Weekly, of Novem- 
ber 30, 1861, it reappeared with Mrs. Beers's initials attached. 
Mr* Oliver, however, wrote the poem in August, 1861, and 
read it to several friends in camp with him in Virginia. In a let- 
ter dated 'Camp 2dGa. Regt. near Centreville, Va., October 3, 
1861,' Mr. John D. Ashton, of Georgia, writing to his wife, says : 
' Upon my arrival at home, should I be so fortunate as to ob- 
tain the hoped-for furlough, I will read you the touching and 
beautiful poem mentioned in my letter of last week, " All 
Quiet Along the Potomac To-night," written by my girlishly 
modest friend, Thaddeus Oliver, of the Buena Vista Guards .' >" 
For further evidence see Southern Historical Society Papers^ 
vol. vin, pp. 255-60. 



THADDEUS OLIVER 69 

Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, 
Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming. 

A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind 
Through the forest-leaves softly is creeping ; 

While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, 15 
Keep guard — for the army is sleeping. 

There 's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread, 

As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, 
And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed 

Far away in the cot on the mountain. 20 

His musket falls slack — his face, dark and grim, 

Grows gentle with memories tender, 
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep — 

For their mother — may Heaven defend her ! 

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, 25 

That night, when the love yet unspoken 
Leaped up to his lips — when low-murmured vows 

Were pledged to be ever unbroken. 
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, 

He dashes off tears that are welling, 30 

And gathers his gun closer up to its place 

As if to keep down the heart-swelling. 

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree — 

The footstep is lagging and weary ; 
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, 

Toward the shades of the forest so dreary. 36 

Hark ! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves ? 

Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? 
It looked like a rifle — " Ah ! Mary, good-bye ! " 

And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing. 40 



70 SOUTHERN POEMS 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, 
No sound save the rush of the river ; 

While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead 
The picket 's off duty forever. 



THE MONEYLESS MAN 

Henry Throop Stanton 

Is there no secret place on the face of the earth 
Where charity dwelleth, where virtue has birth? 
Where bosoms in mercy and kindness will heave, 
When the poor and the wretched shall ask and re- 
ceive ? 
Is there no place at all where a knock from the poor 
Will bring a kind angel to open the door ? 6 

Ah, search the wide world wherever you can, 
There is no open door for a Moneyless Man ! 

Go, look in yon hall where the chandelier's light 
Drives off with its splendor the darkness of night, 10 
Where the rich hanging velvet in shadowy fold 
Sweeps gracefully down with its trimmings of gold, 
And the mirrors of silver take up, and renew, 
In long lighted vistas the 'wildering view : 
Go there ! at the banquet, and find if you can, 15 

A welcoming smile for a Moneyless Man! 

Go, look in yon church of the cloud-reaching spire, 
Which gives to the sun his same look of red fire, 
Where the arches and columns are gorgeous within, 
And the walls seem as pure as a soul without sin ; 20 
Walk down the long aisles, see the rich and the great 
In the pomp and the pride of their worldly estate ; 



HENRY THROOP STANTON 71 

Walk clown in your patches, and find, if you can, 
Who opens a pew to a Moneyless Man. 

Go, look in the Banks, where Mammon has told 25 
His hundreds and thousands of silver and gold ; 
Where, safe from the hands of the starving and poor, 
Lies pile upon pile of the glittering ore ! 
Walk up to their counters — ah, there you may stay 
Till your limbs grow old, till your hairs grow gray, 
And you '11 find at the Banks not one of the clan 31 
With money to lend to a Moneyless Man ! 

Go, look to yon Judge, in his dark-flowing gown, 
With the scales wherein law weigheth equity down ; 
Where he frowns on the weak and smiles on the strong, 
And punishes right whilst he justifies wrong ; 36 

Where juries their lips to the Bible have laid, 
To render a verdict — they 've already made ; 
Go there, in the court-room, and find if you can. 
Any law for the cause of a Moneyless Man ; 40 

Then go to your hovel — no raven has fed 
The wife who has suffered too long for her bread ; 
Kneel down by her pallet, and kiss the death-frost 
From the lips of the angel your poverty lost ; 
Then turn in your agony upward to God, 45 

And bless while it smites you the chastening rod, 
And you '11 find, at the end of your life's little span, 
There 's a welcome above for a Moneyless Man ! 



72 SOUTHERN POEMS 

SOMEBODY'S DARLING 1 

Marie La Coste 

Into a ward of the whitewashed halls 

Where the dead and the dying lay, — 
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls, — 

Somebody's darling was borne one day. 
Somebody's darling ! so young and so brave : L 

Wearing still on his pale sweet face — 
Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave — 

The lingering light of his boyhood's grace. 

Matted and damp are the curls of gold 

Kissing the snow of that fair young brow ; 10 
Pale are the lips of delicate mold, — 

Somebody's darling is dying now. 
Back from the beautiful blue-veined brow 

Brush every wandering silken thread, 
Cross his hands on his bosom now, — 15 

Somebody's darling is still and dead ! 

Kiss him once for somebody's sake ; 

Murmur a prayer, both soft and low ; 
One bright curl from its fair mates take — 

They were somebody's pride, you know. 20 
Somebody's hand has rested there ; 

Was it a mother's, soft and white ? 
Or have the lips of a sister fair 

Been baptized in those waves of light ? 

God knows best ! He was somebody's love ; 25 
Somebody's heart enshrined him there — 
1 Written between the years 1861-65. 



SIDNEY LANIER 73 

Somebody wafted his name above, 

Night and morn, on the wings of prayer. 

Somebody wept when he marched away, 

Looking so handsome, brave, and grand ; 30 

Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay, 
Somebody clung to his parting hand. 

Somebody 's watching and waiting for him, 

Yearning to hold him again to her heart ; 
And there he lies — with his blue eyes dim, 35 

And the smiling, child-like lips apart. 
Tenderly bury the fair young dead, 

Pausing to drop on his grave a tear ; 
Carve on the wooden slab o'er his head, 

" Somebody *s darling slumbers here f" 40 

BALLAD OF TREES AND THE MASTER 1 

Sidney Lanier 

Into the woods my Master went, 

Clean forspent, forspent, 

Into the woods my Master came, 

Forspent with love and shame. 

But the olives they were not blind to Him, 5 

The little gray leaves were kind to Him : 

The thorn tree had a mind to Him 

When into the woods He came. 

Out of the woods my Master went, 

And He was well content. 10 

Out of the woods my Master came, 

1 This poem and The Mockingbird are printed by courtesy of 
Charles Scribner's Sons, publishers of Lanier's Poems. 



74 SOUTHERN POEMS 

Content with death and shame. 

When Death and Shame would woo Him last, 

From under the trees they drew Him last : 

'T was on a tree they slew Him last, 15 

When out of the woods He came. 

THE MOCKINGBIRD 

Sidney Lanier 

Superb and sole, upon a plumed spray 

That o'er the general leafage boldly grew, 

He sum in 'd the woods in song ; or typic drew 

The watch of hungry hawks, the lone dismay 

Of languid doves when long their lovers stray, 5 

And all birds' passion-plays that sprinkle dew 

At morn in brake or bosky avenue. 

Whate'er birds did or dreamed, this bird could say. 

Then down he shot, bounced airily along 

The sward, twitched in a grasshopper, made song 10 

Midflight, perched, prinked, and to his art again. 

Sweet Science, this large riddle read me plain : 

How may the death of that dull insect be 

The life of yon trim Shakespeare on the tree ? 



JOHN HENRY BONER 75 

POE'S COTTAGE AT FORDHAM 

John Henry Boner 

Edgar Allan Poe, with his wife, Virginia Clemm, and her mother 
lived in a small cottage at Fordham, then outside of the city of New 
York, from the early summer of 1846 to 1847. Virginia Poe died there 
on January 30, 1847. 

Here lived the soul enchanted 

By melody of song ; 
Here dwelt the spirit haunted 

By a demoniac throng ; 
Here sang the lips elated ; 5 

Here grief and death were sated ; 
Here loved and here unmated 

Was he, so frail, so strong. 

Here wintry winds and cheerless 

The dying firelight blew, 10 

While he whose song was peerless 

Dreamed the drear midnight through, 

And from dull embers chilling 

Crept shadows darkly filling 

The silent place, and thrilling 15 

His fancy as they grew. 

Here, with brow bared to heaven, 

In starry night he stood, 
With the lost star of seven 

Feeling sad brotherhood. 20 

Here in the sobbing showers 
Of dark autumnal hours 
He heard suspected powers 

Shriek through the stormy wood. 



76 SOUTHERN POEMS 

From visions of Apollo 25 

And of Astarte's bliss, 
He gazed into the hollow 

And hopeless vale of Dis ; 
And though earth were surrounded 
By heaven, it still was mounded 30 

With graves. His soul had sounded 

The dolorous abyss. 

Proud, mad, but not defiant, 
He touched at heaven and hell. 

Fate found a rare soul pliant 35 

And rung her changes well. 

Alternately his lyre, 

Stranded with strings of fire, 

Led earth's most happy choir 

Or flashed with Israfel. 1 40 

No singer of old story 

Luting accustomed lays, 
No harper for new glory, 

No mendicant for praise, 
He struck high chords and splendid, 45 

Wherein were fiercely blended 
Tones that unfinished ended 

With his unfinished days. 

Here through this lowly portal, 

Made sacred by his name, 50 

Unheralded immortal 

The mortal went and came. 

1 Poe prefixes to his poem Israfel a quotation from the Koran 
in which this angel is referred to as the spirit of song. 



MOLLIE E. MOORE DAVIS 77 

And fate that then denied him, 
And envy that decried him, 
And malice that belied him, 55 

Have cenotaphed his fame. 



COUNSEL * 

Mollie E. Moore Davis 

If thou should'st bid thy friend farewell, 

But for one night though that farewell should be, 
Press thou his hand in thine ; how canst thou tell 
How far from thee 

Fate, or caprice, may lead his feet 5 

Ere that to-morrow come ? Men have been known 
Lightly to turn the corner of a street, 
And days have grown 

To months, and months to lagging years, 

Before they looked in loving eyes again. 10 

Parting, at best, is underlaid with tears — 
With tears and pain. 

Therefore, lest sudden death should come between, 

Or time, or distance, clasp with pleasure true 
The palms of him who goeth forth. Unseen, 15 

Fate goeth, too ! 

Yea, find thee always time to say 

Some earnest word betwixt the idle talk, 
Lest with thee henceforth, night and day, 

Regret should walk. 20 

1 Printed by courtesy of Mr. Thomas E. Davis. 



78 SOUTHERN POEMS 

NECTAR AND AMBROSIA 1 

Maurice Thompson 

If I were a poet, ray sweetest song 
Should have the bouquet of scuppernong, 
With a racy smack in every line 
From the savage juice of the muscadine. 

The russet persimmon, the brown papaw, 5 

The red wild plum and the summer haw, 
Serviceberries and mandrake fruit, 
Sassafras bark and ginseng root, 
Should make my verse pungent and sweet by turns ; 
And the odor of grass and the freshness of ferns, 10 
The kernels of nuts and the resins of trees, 
The nectar distilled by the wild honey-bees, 
Should be thrown in together, to flavor my words 
With the zest of the woods and the joy of the birds ! 

Who sings by note, from the page of a book, 15 

So sweet a tune as the brawl of a brook ? 

Shall Homer, or shall Anacreon 

Suggest as much as the wind or the sun ? 

Give me a shell from the sea so green, 

Cut me a flute from the Aulocrene, 20 

Give me Nature's sweets and sours, 

Her barks and nuts, her fruits and flowers ; 

And all the music I make shall be 

Good as the sap of the maple-tree, 

Whilst a rare bouquet shall fill my song 25 

From the muscadine and the scuppernong. 

1 From Poems, copyright 1892, by Maurice Thompson, published 
by Houghton Mifflin Company. 



MAURICE THOMPSON 79 

THE BLUEBIRD 1 

Maurice Thompson 

When ice is thawed and snow is gone, 

And racy sweetness floods the trees ; 
When snow-birds from the hedge have flown, 

And on the hive-porch swarm the bees — 
Drifting down the first warm wind 5 

That thrills the earliest days of spring, 
The bluebird seeks our maple groves, 

And charms them into tasselling. 

He sits among the delicate sprays, 

With mists of splendor round him drawn, 10 
And through the spring's prophetic veil 

Sees summer's rich fulfillment dawn ; 
He sings, and his is nature's voice — 

A gush of melody sincere 
From that great fount of harmony 15 

Which thaws and runs when spring is here. 

Short is his song, but strangely sweet 

To ears aweary of the low, 
Dull tramp of Winter's sullen feet, 

Sandalled in ice and muffed in snow : 20 

Short is his song, but through it runs 

A hint of dithyrambs yet to be — 
A sweet suggestiveness that has 

The influence of prophecy. 

From childhood I have nursed a faith 25 

In bluebird's songs and winds of spring ; 

1 From Poems, copyright 1892, by Maurice Thompson, published 
by Houghton Mifflin Company. 



80 SOUTHERN POEMS 

They tell me after frost and death 

There comes a time of blossoming ; 
And after snow and cutting sleet, 

The cold, stern mood of Nature yields 30 

To tender warmth, when bare pink feet 

Of children press her greening fields. 

Sing strong and clear, O bluebird dear ! 

While all the land with splendour fills, 
While maples gladden in the vales 35 

And plum-trees blossom on the hills : 
Float down the wind on shining wings, 

And do thy will by grove and stream, 
While through my life spring's freshness runs 

Like music through a poet's dream. 40 

REGRET 1 

Frances Christine Tiernan 

If I had known, O loyal heart, 
When hand to hand, we said farewell, 

How for all time our paths would part, 
What shadow o'er our friendship fell, 

I should have clasped your hand so close 5 

In the warm pressure of my own, 

That memory still would keep its grasp, 
If I had known. 

If I had known, when far and wide, 

We loitered through the summer land, 10 

What Presence wandered by our side, 
And o'er you stretched its awful hand, 

1 Written in memory of Julian Fairfax, M.A., University of 
Virginia, 1861. Printed by courtesy of the author. 



FRANCES CHRISTINE TIERNAN 81 

I should have hushed my careless speech, 

To listen well to every tone 
That from your lips fell low and sweet, 15 

If I had known. 

If I had known, when your kind eyes 
Met mine in parting, true and sad — 

Eyes gravely tender, gently wise, 

And earnest rather more than glad — 20 

How soon the lids would lie above, 
As cold and white as sculptured stone, 

I should have treasured every glance, 
If I had known. 

If I had known how from the strife 25 

Of fears, hopes, passions here below, 

Unto a purer, higher life, 

That you were called, O friend, to go, 

I should have stayed all foolish tears, 

And hushed each idle sigh and moan, 30 

To bid you a last, long God-speed, 
If I had known. 

If I had known to what strange place, 
What mystic, distant, silent shore, 

You calmly turned your steadfast face 35 

What time your footsteps left my door, 

I should have forged a golden link 
To bind the heart so constant grown, 

And kept it constant even there, 

If I had known. 40 

If I had known that until Death 

Shall with his fingers touch my brow, 



82 SOUTHERN POEMS 

And still the quickening of the breath 
That stirs with life's full meaning now, 

So long my feet must tread the way 45 

Of our accustomed paths alone, 

I should have prized your presence more, 
If I had known. 

If I had known how soon for you 

Drew near the ending of the fight, 50 

And on your vision, fair and new, 

Eternal peace dawned into sight, 
I should have begged, as love's last gift, 

That you before God's great white throne 
Would pray for your poor friend on earth, 55 
If I had known. 

INTIMATIONS * 
John Banister Tabb 

I knew the flowers had dreamed of you, 
And hailed the morning with regret ; 

For all their faces with the dew 
Of vanished joy were wet. 

I knew the winds had passed your way, 5 

Though not a sound the truth betrayed ; 

About their pinions all the day 
A summer fragrance stayed. 

And so, awakening or asleep, 

A memory of lost delight 10 

By day the sightless breezes keep, 

And silent flowers by night. 

1 The three following poems by John B. Tabb are printed by 
courtesy of Small, Maynard and Company, Inc. 



JOHN BANISTER TABB 83 

KEATS 

John Banister Tabb 

Upon thy tomb 'tis graven, "Here lies one 

Whose name is writ in water." Could there be 

A flight of Fancy fitlier feigned for thee, 
A fairer motto for her favorite son ? 

Now crested proud in tidal majesty, 5 

Now tranquil as the twilight reverie 
Of some dim lake the white moon looks upon, 
While teems the world with silence. Even there, 

In each Protean rainbow-tint that stains 
The breathing canvas of the atmosphere 10 

We read an exhalation of thy strains : 
Thus, on the scroll of Nature, everywhere, 

Thy name, a deathless syllable, remains. 

KILLDEE 

John Banister Tabb 

Killdee ! Killdee ! far o'er the lea 

At twilight comes the cry. 
Killdee ! a marsh-mate answereth 

Across the shallow sky. 

Killdee ! Killdee ! thrills over me 5 

A rhapsody of light, 
As star to star gives utterance 

Between the day and night. 

Killdee ! Killdee ! O Memory, 

The twin birds, Joy and Pain, 10 

Like shadows parted by the sun, 

At twilight meet again ! 



84 SOUTHERN POEMS 

A TRYSTING-PLACE 1 
John Banister Tabb 

As stars amid the darkness seen, 

When flows the deepening dawn between 

To cover them from sight, 
O'erleap the spaces of the dark, 
And, spark to quickening sister-spark, 5 

Commingle in the light ; 

E'en so a solitary way 

Do we, Beloved, day by day, 

In weariness and pain, 
Climb, desolate, from steep to steep, 10 

Till, in the shadowy vale of Sleep, 
Our spirits blend again. 

THE WIND-STORM 2 
Marguerite E. Easter 

All through the night the south wind blew. When 
first 
I marked the tumult, 't was as if a crowd 
From far away approached with voice that loud 

And louder grew, and only paused to burst 

Right at my gate, where for a while it nursed 5 

Itself, reposing on the leaf-strewn sod 
Complacently ; till of a sudden, shod 

With strength, it strode around and, manlike, cursed 

1 From a manuscript in the possession of Dr. William Hand 
Browne, of Johns Hopkins University. 

2 This poem and Maple Leaves are printed by permission of 
Arthur M. Easter. 



MARGUERITE E. EASTER 85 

That which it hurt. The maples turned one way 

Their white-faced leaves and looked about to 
'flee 10 

Before its rage ; the bushes all got gray 

And grisly, as they crept on hand and knee ; 
And the whipped clouds, of tears and speech 

bereft, 
Sullen and aimless, fled to right and left. 

MAPLE LEAVES 
Marguerite E. Easter 

On smooth-skinned, sappy boughs of darker brown 
The woolly wads of buds are folded down, 
Each swaddled in a rumpled, fuzzy gown. 

The chilling breezes cannot get to them, 

Thus closely cuddled to the mother stem, 5 

Their feet wrapped in their red frock's ruffled hem. 

Betimes their yellow tendrils looser curl, 
Betimes their fan-shaped follicles unfurl ; 
They 're growing stealthily, as grows a girl. 

Waked by the bluebird's chirp, some balmy day, 10 
They '11 burst the sheaths that bind them and display 
Themselves, green-kirtled, to the eyes of May. 



86 SOUTHERN POEMS 

THE GRAPEVINE SWING 1 

Samuel Minturn Peck 

When I was a boy on the old plantation, 

Down by the deep bayou, 
The fairest spot of all creation, 

Under the arching blue ; 
When the wind came over the cotton and corn, 5 

To the long slim loop I 'd spring 
With brown feet bare, and a hat brim torn, 

And swing in the grapevine swing. 

Swinging in the grapevine swing, 

Laughing where the wild birds sing, 10 

I dream and sigh 

For the days gone by, 
Swinging in the grapevine swing ! 

Out — o'er the water-lilies bonnie and bright, 

Back — to the moss-grown tree ; 15 

I shouted and laughed with a heart as light 

As a wild rose tossed by the breeze. 
The mocking-bird joined in my reckless glee, 

I longed for no angel's wing — 
I was just as near heaven as I wanted to be 20 

Swinging in the grapevine swing. 

Swinging in the grapevine swing, 
Laughing where the wild birds sing, 

O to be a boy 

With a heart full of joy, 25 

Swinging in the grapevine swing ! 

1 From Rings and Love Knots, copyright, 1892, by Frederick 
A. Stokes Company. 



WILLIAM HAMILTON HAYNE 87 

I 'm weary at noon, I 'm weary at night, 

I 'm fretted and sore at heart, 
And care is sowing my locks with white 

As I wend through the fevered mart. 30 

I 'm tired of the world, with its pride and pomp, 

And fame seems a worthless thing. 
I 'd barter it all for one day's romp, 

And a swing in the grapevine swing. 

Swinging in the grapevine swing, 35 

Laughing where the wild birds sing, 

I would I were away 

From the world to-day, 
Swinging in the grapevine swing ! 

VERNAL PROPHECIES 1 

William Hamilton Hayne 

To-DAY the wind has a milder range, 
And seems to hint of a secret change ; 
For the gossipy breezes bring to me 
The delicate odor of buds to be 

In the gardens and groves of Spring. 5 

Those forces of nature we cannot see — 
The procreant power in plant and tree, 
Shall bring at last to the waiting thorn 
The wealth of the roses yet unborn 

In the gardens and groves of Spring. 10 

The early grass in a sheltered nook 
Unsheathes its blades near the forest brook ; 

1 This poem and A Sea Lyric are printed by courtesy of the author. 



88 SOUTHERN POEMS 

In the first faint green of the elm I see 
A gracious token of leaves to be 

In the gardens and groves of Spring. 15 

The peach-trees brighten the river's brink, 
With their dainty blossoms of white and pink, 
And over the orchard there comes to me 
The subtle fragrance of fruit to be 

In the gardens and groves of Spring. 20 

The rigor of winter has passed away, 
While the earth seems yearning to meet her May, 
And the voice of a bird in melodious glee 
Foretells the sweetness of songs to be 

In the gardens and groves of Spring. 25 



A SEA LYRIC 
William Hamilton Hayne 

There is no music that man has heard 

Like the voice of the minstrel Sea, 
Whose major and minor chords are fraught 

With infinite mystery; 
For the Sea is a harp, and the winds of God 5 

Play over his rhythmic breast, 
And bear on the sweep of their mighty wings 

The song of a vast unrest. 

There is no passion that man has sung, 

Like the love of the deep-souled Sea, 10 

Whose tide responds to the Moon's soft light 
With marvelous melody j 



DANSKE DANDRIDGE 89 

For the Sea is a harp, and the winds of God 

Play over his rhythmic breast, 
And bear on the sweep of their mighty wings 15 

The song of a vast unrest. 

There is no sorrow that man has known, 

Like the grief of the worldless Main, 
Whose Titan bosom forever throbs 

With an untranslated pain ; 20 

For the Sea is a harp, and the winds of God 

Play over his rhythmic breast, 
And bear on the sweep of their mighty wings 

The song of a vast unrest. 



TO MY COMRADE TREE 1 

Danske Dandridge 

" The tree is grown that shall yield to each ... his ' last narrow 
house and dark.' " — County Parson. 

Remote in the woods where the thrushes chant ; 

Or on some lonely mountain slope ; 
Or in a copse, the cuckoo's haunt — 

With fingers pointing to the cope, 
There stands a tree, there stands a tree, 5 

Must fall before they bury me. 

O waiting heart, where'er thou art, 

At last thy dust with mine shall blend ; 

For though we spend our days apart, 

We come together at the end ; 10 

And thou with me, and I with thee, 

Must lie in perfect unity. 

1 Printed by courtesy of the author. 



90 SOUTHERN POEMS 

Within a cramped confine of space, 
And owning naught of earth beside, 

That heart must be my dwelling-place 15 

For whom the world was not too wide. 

A new-time Dryad, mine must be 

The shape that shall inhabit thee. 

Perchance in some lone wandering 

On thine old roots I may have lain, 20 

And heard above the wood-birds sing, 

While God looked down upon us twain ; 
And did I feel no thrill, with thee, 
Of fellowship and sympathy ? 

Is thy strong heart ne'er wearied out, 25 

With standing 'neath the overfreight 

Of boughs that compass thee about, 

With mass of green, or white, a-weight? 

patient tree, O patient tree ! 

Dost never long for rest, like me? 30 

1 know thou spreadest grateful shade 

When fierce the noontide sun doth beat ; 
And birds their nests in thee have made, 

And cattle rested at thy feet : 
Heaven grant I make this life of mine 35 

As beautiful and brave as thine ! 

And when thy circling cloak is doffed, 
Thou standest on the storm-swept sod 

And liftest thy long arms aloft 

In mute appealing to thy God: 40 

Appeal for me, appeal for me, 

That I may stand as steadfastly. 



MADISON CAWEIN 91 

Let me fulfil my destiny 

And calmly wait for thee, O friend ! 
For thou must fall, and I must die, 45 

And come together at the end — 
To quiet slumbering addressed ; 
Shut off from storm ; shut in for rest. 

Thus lying in God's mighty hand 

While his great purposes unfold, 50 

We '11 feel, as was from Chaos planned, 

His breath inform our formless mould ; 
New shape for thee, new life for me, 
For both, a vast eternity, 

THE WHIPPOORWILL 1 

Madison Cawein 

This bird is familiar to all Southerners and is generally associated 
with sadness and with negro superstitions. 

Above long woodland ways that led 
To dells the stealthy twilights tread 
The west was hot geranium-red ; 

And still, and still, 
Along old lanes, the locusts sow 5 

With clustered curls the May times know, 
Out of the crimson afterglow, 
We heard the homeward cattle low, 
And then the far-off, far-off woe 

Of " whippoorwill ! " of " whippoorwill ! " 10 

Beneath the idle beechen boughs 
We heard the cow-bells of the cows 

1 This poem and Evening on the Farm are printed by courtesy 
of the author. 



92 SOUTHERN POEMS 

Come slowly jangling toward the house ; 

And still, and still, 
Beyond the light that would not die 15 

Out of the scarlet-haunted sky, 
Beyond the evening star's white eye 
Of glittering chalcedony, 
Drained out of dusk the plaintive cry 

Of "whippoorwill ! " of " whippoorwill! w 20 

What is there in the moon, that swims 
A naked bosom o'er the limbs, 
That all the wood with magic dims? 

While still, while still, 
Among the trees whose shadows grope 25 

'Mid ferns and flow'rs the dewdrops ope — 
Lost in faint deeps of heliotrope 
Above the clover-scented slope — 
Retreats, despairing past all hope, 

The whippoorwill, the whippoorwill. 30 

EVENING ON THE FARM 

Madison Cawein 

From out the hills where twilight stands, 
Above the shadowy pasture-lands, 

With strained and strident cry, 
Beneath pale skies that sunset bands, 

The bull-bats fly. 5 

A cloud hangs over, strange of shape, 
And, colored like the half-ripe grape, 

Seems some uneven stain 
On heaven's azure, thin as crape, 

And blue as rain. 10 



MADISON CAWEIN 93 

By-ways, that sunset's sardonyx 
O'erflares, and gates the farm-boy clicks, 

Through which the cattle came, 
The mullein's stalks seem giant wicks 

Of downy flame. 15 

From woods no glimmer enters in, 
Above the streams that, wandering, win 

From out the violet hills, 
Those haunters of the dusk begin, 

The whippoorwills. 20 

Adown the dark the firefly marks 
Its flight in golden-emerald sparks ; 

And, loosened from its chain, 
The shaggy watch-dog bounds and barks, 

And barks again. 25 

Each breeze brings scents of hill-heaped hay ; 
And now an owlet, far away, 

Cries twice or thrice, " T-o-o-w-h-o-o- " ; 
And cool dim moths of mottled gray 

Flit through the dew. 30 

The silence sounds its frog-bassoon, 
Where, on the woodland creek's lagoon, 

Pale as a ghostly girl 
Lost 'mid the trees, looks down the moon, 

With face of pearl. 35 

Within the shed where logs, late hewed, 
Smell forest-sweet, and chips of wood 
Make blurs of white and brown, 
The brood-hen huddles her warm brood 

Of teetering down. 40 



94 SOUTHERN POEMS 

The clattering guineas in the tree 
Din for a time ; and quietly 

The hen-house, near the fence, 
Sleeps, save for some brief rivalry 

Of cocks and hens. 45 

A cow-bell tinkles by the rails, 

Where, streaming white in foaming pails, 

Milk makes an uddery sound ; 
While overhead the black bat trails 

Around and round. 50 

The night is still. The slow cows chew 
A drowsy cud. The bird that flew 

And sang is in its nest. 
It is the time of falling dew, 

Of dreams and rest. 55 

The brown bees sleep ; and round the walk, 
The garden path, from stalk to stalk 

The bungling beetle booms, 
Where two soft shadows stand and talk 

Among the blooms. 60 

The stars are thick ; the light is dead 
That dyed the west ; and Drowsy head, 

Tuning his cricket-pipe, 
Nods, and some apple, round and red, 

Drops over-ripe. 65 

Now down the road, that shambles by, 
A window, shining like an eye 

Through climbing rose and gourd, 
Shows where Toil sups and these things lie — 

His heart and hoard. 70 



WALTER MALONE 95 

OPPORTUNITY 1 

Walter Ma lone 

They do me wrong who say I come no more 
When once I knock and fail to find you in ; 

For every day I stand outside your door, 

And bid you wake, and rise to fight and win. 

Wail not for precious chances passed away, 5 

Weep not for golden ages on the wane ! 

Each night I burn the records of the day — 
At sunrise every soul is born again ! 

Laugh like a boy at splendors that have sped, 

To vanished joys be blind and deaf and dumb ; 10 

My judgments seal the dead past with its dead, 
But never bind a moment yet to come. 

Though deep in mire, wring not your hands and weep ; 

I lend my arm to all who say " I can ! " 
No shame-faced outcast ever sank so deep, 15 

But yet might rise and be again a man ! 

Dost thou behold thy lost youth all aghast ? 

Dost reel from righteous Retribution's blow? 
Then turn from blotted archives of the past, 

And find the future's pages white as snow. 20 

Art thou a mourner ? Rouse thee from thy spell ; 

Art thou a sinner ? Sins may be forgiven ; 
Each morning gives thee wings to flee from hell, 

Each night a star to guide thy feet to heaven. 

1 This poem was written before that one by the late Senator 
J. J. Ingalls, to which otherwise it would seem a reply. Printed 
by courtesy of the author, as also is Florida Nocturne. 



96 SOUTHERN POEMS 

FLORIDA NOCTURNE 

Walter M alone 

Through midnight shadows purple-brown, 

The stars are peeping open-eyed ; 

There in her glowing, silvery gown 

The moon comes like a radiant bride. 

Now sweet and clear 5 

From citron coppice near, 

I hear a mocking-bird repine. 

In gurgle, gurgle, gurgle of his melodies divine. 

From lemon orchards, starred with blooms, 
And bending low with fragrant fruit, 10 

Soft odors haunt the purple glooms 
Like whispers of a lover's lute. 
1 wait alone 

For you, for you, my own, 

With love more spirit-like and sweet 15 

Than all the fragile blossoms that I scatter at your 
feet. 

Through green pomegranate trees 
I see the swelling globes of gold ; 
Through jasmine vines I feel the breeze 
Trip like a cherub, silken-stoled ; 20 

Magnolias loom 
With creamy clouds of bloom ; 
With pining they are pale, my dear, 
But not more pale with pining than the one who waits 
you here. 

The orange fruit swings on the trees, 25 

The sprays of orange scent the air ; 



HARRY STILLWELL EDWARDS 97 

Gold apples of Hesperides, 
I bring their blooms to wreathe your hair ! 
Hark to the trill 

Of yon lone whip-poor-will, 30 

Reminding by his mournful tune 
That Youth and Love and Joy must pass, so soon, so 
soon, so soon ! 

The orange odors soon must faint, 

The lemon blossoms soon must die, 

The mocking-bird must end his plaint, 35 

Magnolias, fading, flutter by. 

Then come, sweet mate, 

Before it be too late ! 

While Youth is blissful, Love divine, 

O maiden of the flower-like face, be mine, be mine, be 

TniTift! 40 



THE VULTURE AND HIS SHADOW 1 

Harry Stillwell Edwards 

All the day long we roam, we roam, 

My shadow fleet and I ; 
One searches all the land and sea, 

And one the trackless sky ; 
But when the taint of death ascends 5 

My airy flight to greet, 
As friends around the festal board, 

We meet ! we meet ! we meet ! 

Ah ! none can read the sign we read, 

No eye can fathom the gales, 10 

1 Printed by courtesy of the author. 



98 SOUTHERN POEMS 

No tongue can whisper our secret deed, 

For dead men tell no tales. 
The spot on the plains is miles away ; 

But our wings are broad and fleet — 
The wave-tossed speck in the eye of day 15 

Is far — but we meet ! we meet ! 

The voice of the battle is haste, oh, haste ! 

And down the wind we speed ; 
The voice of the wreck moans up from the deep, 

And we search the rank sea weed. 20 

The maiden listens the livelong day 

For the fall of her lover's feet ; 
She wonders to see us speeding by — 

She would die, if she saw us meet ! 

l'envoi 
Sweeping in circles, my shadow and I, 25 

Leaving no mark on the land or sky, 
When the double circles are all complete, 
At the bedside of death we meet ! we meet ! 

DREAMING IN THE TRENCHES 1 
William Gordon McCabe 

I PICTURE her there in the quaint old room, 
Where the fading fire-light starts and falls, 

Alone in the twilight's tender gloom, 

With the shadows that dance on the dim-lit walls. 

Alone, while those faces look silently down 5 

From their antique frames in a grim repose — 

1 Petersburg Trenches, 1864. Printed by courtesy of the au- 
thor. 



WILLIAM GORDON McCABE 99 

Slight scholarly Ralph in his Oxford gown, 
And stanch Sir Alan, who died for Montrose. 1 

There are gallants gay in crimson and gold, 

There are smiling beauties with powdered hair, 10 

But she sits there, fairer a thousand-fold, 

Leaning dreamily back in her low arm-chair. 

And the roseate shadows of fading light 

Softly clear, steal over the sweet young face, 

Where a woman's tenderness blends to-night 15 

With the guileless pride of a knightly race. 

Her small hands lie clasped in a listless way 

On the old Romance — which she holds on her 
knee — 

Of Tristram, the bravest of knights in the fray, 
And Iseult, who waits by the sounding sea. 20 

And her proud, dark eyes wear a softened look 
As she watches the dying embers fall; 

Perhaps she dreams of the knight in the book, 
Perhaps of the pictures that smile on the wall. 

What fancies I wonder are thronging her brain, 25 
For her cheeks flush warm with a crimson glow! 

Perhaps — ah! me, how foolish and vain! 
But I 'd give my life to believe it so ! 

Well, whether I ever march home again 

To offer my love and a stainless name, 30 

Or whether I die at the head of my men — 

I '11 be true to the end all the same. 

1 James Graham, Marquis of Montrose (1612-50), the poet, 
and great soldier and supporter of Charles I. 



100 SOUTHERN POEMS 

THE LAND WHERE WE WERE DREAMING 1 
Daniel Bedinger Lucas 

Fair were our nation's visions, and as grand 

As ever floated out of fancy-land ; 
Children were we in simple faith, 
But god-like children, whom nor death, 
Nor threat of danger drove from honor's path — 5 
In the land where we were dreaming ! 

Proud were our men as pride of birth could render, 

As violets our women pure and tender ; 
And when they spoke, their voices' thrill 
At evening hushed the whip-poor-will ; 10 

At morn the mocking bird was mute and still, 
In the land where we were dreaming ! 

And we had graves that covered more of glory, 
Than ever taxed the lips of ancient story; 

And in our dream we wove the thread 15 

Of principles for which had bled, 
And suffered long our own immortal dead, 
In the land where we were dreaming ! 

Tho' in our land we had both bond and free, 
Both were content, and so God let them be ; 20 

Till Northern glances, slanting down, 
With envy viewed our harvest sun — 
But little recked we, for we still slept on, 
In the land where we were dreaming ! 

1 Written in Canada, where he had gone to defend his friend 
John Yates Beall, attainted of treason, after General Lee's sur- 
render. This poem was first published in the Montreal Gazette. 
Printed by courtesy of Miss Virginia Lucas. 



DANIEL BEDINGER LUCAS 101 

Our sleep grew troubled, and our dreams grew wild ; 25 
Red meteors flashed across our heaven's field ; 
Crimson the Moon ; between the Twins 
Barbed arrows flew in circling lanes 
Of light ; red Comets tossed their fiery manes 
O'er the land where we were dreaming ! 30 

Down from her eagle height smiled Liberty, 

And waved her hand in sign of victory ; 
The world approved, and everywhere, 
Except where growled the Russian bear, 
The brave, the good and just gave us their prayer, 35 
For the land where we were dreaming ! 

High o'er our heads a starry flag was seen, 
Whose field was blanched, and spotless in its sheen : 
Chivalry's cross its union bears, 
And by his scars each vet'ran swears 40 

To bear it on in triumph through the wars, 
In the land where we were dreaming ! 

We fondly thought a Government was ours — 
We challenged place among the world's great powers ; 
We talk'd in sleep of rank, commission, 45 

Until so life-like grew the vision, 
That he who dared to doubt but met derision, 
In the land where we were dreaming ! 

A figure came among us as we slept — 

At first he knelt, then slowly rose and wept ; 50 

Then gathering up a thousand spears, 

He swept across the field of Mars, 

Then bowed farewell, and walked behind the stars, 
From the land where we were dreaming ! 



102 SOUTHERN POEMS 

We looked again, another figure still 55 

Gave hope, and nerved each individual will ; 
Erect he stood, as clothed with power ; 
Self-poised, he seemed to rule the hour, 
With firm, majestic sway — of strength a tower, 
In the land where we were dreaming ! 60 

As while great Jove, in bronze, a warder god, 
Gazed eastward from the Forum where he stood, 

Rome felt herself secure and free — 

So Richmond, we, on guard for thee, 

Beheld a bronzed hero, god-like Lee, 65 

In the land where we were dreaming ! 

As wakes the soldier when the alarum calls — 
As wakes the mother when her infant falls — 
As starts the traveler when around 
His sleepy couch the fire-bells sound — 70 

So woke our nation with a single bound — 
In the land where we were dreaming ! 

Woe ! woe ! is us, the startled mothers cried, 
While we have slept, our noble sons have died ! 
Woe ! woe ! is us, how strange and sad, 75 

That all our glorious visions fled, 
Have left us nothing real but our dead, 
In the land where we were dreaming ! 

And are they really dead, our martyred slain ? 

No, Dreamers ! Morn shall bid them rise again ; 80 
From every plain — from every height — 
On which they seemed to die for right, 
Their gallant spirits shall renew the fight, 
In the land where we were dreaming ! 



MARY McNEIL FENOLLOSA 103 

Unconquered still in soul, tho' now o'er-run, 85 

In peace, in war, the battle 's just begun ! 
Once this Thyestean banquet o'er, 
Grown strong the few who bide the hour, 
Shall rise and hurl its drunken guests from power, 
In the land where we were dreaming ! 90 



THE MAGNOLIA 1 

Mary McNeil Fenollosa 

flowers of the garden, of skilled and human care, 
Sweet heliotrope, and violet, and orchid frail and fair, 
Pour out your love to happier hearts ; the woodland 

flowers for me, 
The pallid, creamy blossoms of the dark magnolia tree ! 

1 close my eyes ; my soul lifts up to float with their per- 

fume, 5 

And dull the body lying in this narrow city room. 
Again I am a happy child. I leap and joy to see 
The great curved petals wavering slip from out the 

gleaming tree. 

As holy grail, or pearl inwrought, or carven ivory cup, 
They stand on bronze and emerald bough, and brim 

their sweetness up ; 10 

And underneath a happy child ! — O days that used to 

be! 
In distant land, the flowers still stand upon the dark 

green tree. 

1 From Out of The Nest, by Mary McNeil Fenollosa, copy- 
right, 1899, by Little, Brown and Company. 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 

Boner, John Henry : — born in Salem, North Carolina, in 1845; 
of Moravian lineage; became printer and writer; had govern- 
ment employment in Washington ; died 1903. Author of 
numerous poems. 

Cawein, Madison : — born in Louisville, Kentucky, in 1865 ; 
lived for a time in Indiana ; studied in Louisville High School ; 
engaged in business but was a constant composer ; lives in 
Louisville and is devoted to letters. Author of numerous vol- 
umes collected in a uniform edition by Bobbs-Merrill Com- 
pany. 

Cooke, Philip Pendleton : — born in Virginia in 1816; edu- 
cated at Princeton, where he began writing poetry; contribu- 
tor to Southern Literary Messenger ; died in 1850. Author of 
Froissart Ballads and Other Poems, etc. 

Dandridge, Danske :— born in Denmark in 1869, where her 
father, Henry Bedinger, was United States Minister; lived in 
West Virginia since her marriage; contributor to magazines. 
Author of Joy and Other Poems, etc. 

Davis, Mary Evelyn Moore : — born in Alabama in 1852; 
went with her father to Texas; began publishing in 1870; mar- 
ried in 1874; moved to New Orleans; became a social leader 
and her home a center of literary influence; died 1909. Author 
of many volumes of stories and poems. 

Dickson, Samuel Henry : — born in Charleston, South Caro- 
lina, in 1798; eminent practitioner of medicine; professor in 
New York and Philadelphia medical schools; died in Phila- 
delphia, 1872. Author of medical books, negro studies, and 
poems. 

Easter, Marguerite E. : — born in Virginia in 1839; her 
parents, Daniel Rutter and wife, were of Maryland; married 
in 1859; contributed to numerous magazines; death of her 
son in 1888 re-created her poetic spirit; died in Baltimore in 
1894. Author of Clytie and Other Poems, etc. 



106 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 

I Edwards, Harry Stillwell : — born in Maeon, Georgia, in 
1855; practiced law; connected with Macon Telegraph; be- 
gan writing for magazines; at present postmaster in Macon. 
Author of short stories, several novels, and a few poems. 

Fenollosa, Mary McNeill : — born in Alabama in 18 — ; her 
second marriage took her to Japan, after which she began 
writing; in 1895 married Professor Fenollosa, a distinguished 
Orientalist; lives in Alabama. Author of several novels, sev- 
eral volumes of poetry, etc. 

v Hayne, Paul Hamilton : — born in Charleston, South Caro- 
lina, in 1830; educated at Charleston College; editor; im- 
poverished by Civil War; moved to "Copse Hill," Georgia; 
died there in 1886. Author of numerous magazine articles, 
several biographies, Legends and Lyrics, and other volumes of 
poems. 

Hayne, William H. : — born in Charleston, South Carolina, in 
1856; educated mainly at "Copse Hill," Georgia; has de- 
voted himself mainly to literature; lives at Augusta, Georgia. 
Author of Sylvan Lyrics, etc. 

Henderson, Philo : — born about 1822; editor of paper in 
Charlotte, North Carolina; died in 1852. 

Hope, James Barron : — born in Norfolk, Virginia, in 1829; 
educated at Hampton Academy and William and Mary Col- 
lege; saw sea-service; lawyer; contributor to Southern Liter- 
ary Messenger ; soldier during Confederacy; editor and edu- 
cator; died in Norfolk in 1887. Author of many occasional 
poems, etc. Poems edited by his daughter. 

Key, Francis Scott : — born in Frederick County, Maryland, 
in 1780; educated at St. John's College, Annapolis; lawyer in 
Washington, D.C.; died in 1843. His Poems were edited by 
Chief Justice Roger B. Taney. 

La Coste, Marie : — of French parentage and long a resident 
of Savannah, Georgia; now living in Washington, D.C. 

Lanier, Sidney : — born in Macon, Georgia, in 1842; educated 
at Oglethorpe College; entered Confederate service; im- 
prisoned at Point Lookout; health broken; appointed lecturer 
in Johns Hopkins University; died in North Carolina in 1881. 

Author of nianv volumes. 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 107 

LUCAS, Daniel BkdinGer : — born in Virginia in 1836; edu- 
cated at the University of Virginia; studied Law; served the 
Confederacy; became Judge of Supreme Court of Appeals of 
West Virginia; died 1909. Author of addresses, several vol- 
umes of poetry, etc. Poems edited by his daughter. 

McCabe, William GORDON : — born in Richmond, Virginia, in 
1841; educated at the University of Virginia; served in Con- 
federate army; many years head master of a school; lives 
now in Richmond. Author of poems, reviews, etc. 

Malone, Walter : — born in Mississippi in 1866; began writ- 
ing for publication when he was thirteen; at sixteen published 
a three hundred page book of verse; graduated in law in 1887; 
practiced law and wrote poetry in Memphis; spent several 
years in New York; now judge in Memphis. Author of sev- 
eral volumes of poetry and some short stories. 

Meek, Alexander Beaufort: — born in Columbia, South 
Carolina, in 1814; grew up in Alabama; educated at the 
University of Alabama; became lawyer, politician, editor, 
public speaker, and author; died at Columbus, Mississippi, in 
1865. Author of Songs and Poems of the South, etc. 

O'Hara, Theodore: — born in Danville, Kentucky, in 1820; 
practiced law ; served through the Mexican War and the Civil 
War; became a planter in Alabama; died in 1867. Author of 
several noted poems. 

Oliver, Thaddeus : — born in Georgia in 1826; eloquent lawyer 
and a gifted man; died in a hospital in Charleston, South 
Carolina, in 1864. Author of several poems and believed on 
good evidence to be author of " All 's Quiet along the Potomac 
To-night/' 

Peck, Samuel Minturn : — born in Alabama in 1854; lived for 
a time in Illinois, but returned to Alabama in 1867; gradu- 
ated from University of Alabama and in medicine from Belle- 
vue, New York; began writing early; has spent much time 
abroad, though he counts Tuscaloosa his home. Author of 
Cap and Bells, Rings and Love- Knots, Rhymes and Roses, etc., 
as well as of short stories and sketches. 

Pike, Albert: — born in Boston in 1809; lived in Arkansas, 
where he was editor, lawyer, soldier; moved to Washington, 



108 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 

where lie died in 1891. Contributed to Blackwood's; author of 
Prose Sketches and Poems and other works. 

Pinkney, Edward Coote : — born in London, England, where 
his father was Minister, in 1802; entered United States Navy; 
withdrew and became lawyer; later journalist; died in 1828. 
Author of a number of poems. 

Poe, Edgar Allan: — born in Boston in 1809; adopted by 
Mrs. Allan in Richmond, Virginia; educated in England and 
at the University of Virginia and West Point; died in Baltin 
more in 1819. Author of poems, stories, criticisms, etc. 

Preston, Margaret Junkin : — born in Pennsylvania in 1820; 
moved with her father, Rev. George Junkin, to Lexington, 
Virginia; married Colonel J. T. L. Preston; died in Lexing- 
ton in 1897. Author of Beechenbrook, a Rhyme of the War ; 
Old Songs and New, etc. 

Randall, James Ryder : — born in Baltimore in 1839; edu- 
cated at Georgetown College; traveled much and became 
professor in Louisiana; employed as private secretary in Wash- 
ington; editor; died in Augusta, Georgia, in 1908. Poems 
edited by Matthew Page Andrews. 

Ryan, Abram J.: — born probably in Norfolk, Virginia, about 
1836; educated for the Catholic priesthood; served in many 
parishes; served as chaplain in the Civil War; edited Banner 
of the South; died in Louisville, Kentucky, in 1886. Poems 
were first published in Mobile. 

Simms, William Gilmore : — born in Charleston, South Caro- 
lina, in 1806; traveled through unexplored South; settled near 
Charleston ; edited several magazines; died in 1870. Author 
of numerous novels and volumes of poetry. 

Stanton, Henry Throop : — born in Alexandria, Virginia, in 
1834; educated in Maysville, Kentucky; entered West Point 
but withdrew; became editor, then lawyer; was adjutant-gen- 
eral in Confederacy; returned to editorship; died in Frank- 
fort, Kentucky, in 1899. Author of The Moneyless Man and 
Other Poems, etc. 

Tabb, John Banister : — born in Virginia in 1845; education 
interrupted by weak eyes; saw service in Civil War and was 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 109 

captured; studied for Episcopal orders, but was converted to 
Roman Catholicism; studied in St. Charles College and was 
made professor; died there in 1909. Author of Poems, Lyrics, 
etc. 
Thompson, John Reuben : — born in Richmond, Virginia, in 
1823; educated at the University of Virginia; graduated in 
law; editor of the Southern Literary Messenger; contributor 
during Civil War to English journals ; died in New York in 
1873. Author of numerous poems. 

Thompson, Maurice: — born in Indiana in 1844; identified 
with Georgia; entered the Confederate service; later returned 
to Indiana, but spent much time in the South; lawyer, poli- 
tician, editor, and author; died in Crawfordsville, Indiana, in 
1902. Author of several novels, books on archery, poems, etc. 

Ticknor, Francis Orray: — born in Georgia in 1822; studied 
and practiced medicine; a fluent versifier; died in 1874. His 
poems have been edited by Miss Michelle Cutliff Ticknor. 

Tiernan, Frances Christine: — better known as Christian 
Reid; born in Salisbury, North Carolina, in 1846; began her 
literary career in 1870; married in 1887 and lived much in 
Mexico; since 1898, when her husband died, mainly interested 
in her church. Author of numerous novels and short stories. 

Timrod, Henry: — born in Charleston, South Carolina, in 1829; 
attended University of Georgia; tried law, took to journalism; 
contributed many poems to Southern magazines; died in 
Columbia, South Carolina, in 1867. Poems edited first by 
Paul Hamilton Hayne; later edition by J. P. Kennedy Bryan. 

Tucker, St. George : — born in Bermuda, in 1752; came to Vir- 
ginia early in life; married the mother of John Randolph of 
Roanoke; became a prominent jurist, professor of law in 
William and Mary College ; author of Days of My Youth and 
Other Poems, Commentary on the Constitution, Dissertation on 
Slavery, etc.; died in 1828. 

Wilde, Richard Henry : — born in Dublin, Ireland, in 1789; 
brought to America at eight; studied law in Georgia and be- 
came Attorney-General of the State; Member of Congress; 
extensive traveler; professor of law in University of Louisi- 
ana; died in 1847. He was the author of lyrics and odes. 



INDEX OF TITLES 



All Quiet Along The Potomac, 

Thaddeus Oliver, 08. 
Annabel Lee, E. A. Poe, 13. 
Bacon's Epitaph, Anonymous, 1. 
Ballad of Trees and the Master, 

Sidney Lanier, 73. 
Before Death, M. J. Preston. 40. 
Better Than Gold, A. J. Ruan, 

66. 
Bivouac of the Dead, Theodore 

O'Hara, 27. 
Bluebird, Maurice Thompson, 79. 
Carcassonne, J. R. Thompson, 30. 
Common Thought, A, Henry Tim- 
rod, 47. 
Conquered Banner, A. J. Ryan, 

02. 
Cotton Boll, Henry Timrod, 49. 
Counsel, M. E. M. Davis, 77. 
Cypress and Pine, 5. H. Dickson, 

0. 
Days of my Youth, St. George 

Tucker, 2. 
Dream of the South Wind, P. H. 

Hayne, 50. 
Dreaming- in the Trenches, W. G. 

McCabe, 98. 
Evening on the Farm, Madison 

Cawein, 1)2. 
Florence Vane, P. P. Cooke, 25. 
Florida Nocturne, Walter Malone, 

96. 
Gone Forward, M. J. Preston, 

43. 
Grapevine Swing, S. M. Peck, 

80. 
Health, A, E. C. Pinkney, 7. 
In Harbor, P. H. Hayne, 58. 
Intimations, J. B. Tabb, 82. 
Israfel, E. A. Poe, 11. 
Keats, J. B. Tabb, 83. 
Killdee, J. B. Tabb, 83. ■ 
Land of the South, A. B. Meek, 

23. 
Land Where we were Dreaming, 

D. B. Lucas, 100. 



Land Without Ruins, A. J. Ryan, 

05. 
Little Giffen, F. O. Ticknor, 32. 
Long Ago, Philo Henderson, 30. 
Magnolia, M. McN. Fenollosa, 103. 
Maple Leaves, M. E. Easter, 85. 
Maryland, My Maryland, J. R. 

Randall, 59. 
Mockingbird, Ode to the, Albert 

Pike, 21. 
Mockingbird, The, Sidney Lanier, 

74. 
Moneyless Man, H. T Stanton, 70. 
Music in Camp, J. R. Thompson, 

33. 
My Comrade Tree, Danske Dan- 

dridge, 89. 
My Life is Like the Summer Rose, 

R. H. Wilde, 5. 
My Study, P. H. Hayne, 54. 
Nectar and Ambrosia, Maurice 

Thompson, 78. 
Ode for Decoration Day, Henry 

Timrod, 48. 
Opportunity, Walter Malone, 95. 
Our Anglo-Saxon Tongue, J. B. 

Hope, 40. 
Pine's Mystery, P. H. Hayne, 

55. 
Poe's Cottage at Fordham, J. H. 

Boner, 75. 
Raven, E. A. Poe, 15. 
Regret, F. C. Tiernan, 80. 
Resignation, St. George Tucker, 2. 
Sea Lyric, W. H. Hayne, 88. 
Shade of the Trees, M. J. Pres- 
ton, 42. 
Somebody's Darling, Marie La 

Coste, 72. 
Star-Spangled Banner, F. S. Key, 

o. 
Swamp Fox, W. G. Simms, 8. 
Sword of Lee, A. J. Ryan, 04. 
Trysting-Place, J. B. Tabb, 84. 
Vernal Prophecies, W. H. Hayne, 



112 



INDEX OF TITLES 



Vulture and his Shadow, H. S. I Will and the Wing, P. H. Hayne, 

Edwards, 97. 55. 

Washington — Pater Patriae, J. B. Window-Panes at Brandon, J. R. 



Hope, 44. 
Whippoorwill, Madison Cawein, 
91. 



Thompson, 38. 
Wind-storm, The, M. E. Easter, 

84. 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 



Boner, John Henry, 75. 
Cawein, Madison, 91. 
Cooke, Philip Pendleton, 25. 
Dandridge, Danske, 89. 
Davis, Mollie Evelyn Moore, 77. 
Dickson, Samuel Henry, 6. 
Easter, Marguerite Elizabeth, 

84. 
Edwards, Harry Still well, 97. 
Fenollosa, Mary McNeil, 103. 
Hay ue, Paul Hamilton, 54. 
Hayne, William Hamilton, 87. 
Henderson, Philo, 30. 
Hope, James Barron, 44. 
Key, Francis Scott, 3. 
LaCoste, Marie, 72. 
Lanier, Siduey, 73. 
Lucas, Daniel Bedinger, 100. 
McCabe, William Gordon, 98. 
Malone, Walter, 95. 



Meek, Alexander Beaufort, 23. 
O'Hara, Theodore, 27. 
Oliver, Thaddeus, 68. 
Peck, Samuel Minturn, 86. 
Pike, Albert, 21. 
Pinkney, Edward Coote, 7. 
Poe, Edgar Allan, 11. 
Preston, Margaret Junkin, 40. 
Randall, James Ryder, 59. 
Ryan, Abram J., 62. 
Simms, William Gilmore, 8. 
Stanton, Henry Throop, 70. 
Tabb, John Banister, 82. 
Thompson, Maurice, 78. 
Thompson, John Reuben, 33. 
Tieknor, Francis Orray, 32. 
Tiernan, Frances Christine, 80. 
Timrod, Henry, 47. 
Tucker, St. George, 2. 
Wilde, Richard Henry, 5. 



<&be ftiliersibe press 

CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
U . S . A 



LITERATURE TEXTS 

American Classics. With suggestions for study, etc. 438 pages, 75 
cents, net. 

American and English Classics. For Grammar Grades. With 

explanatory notes, etc. 330 pages. 55 cents, net. 

American Poems. Edited by H. E. Scudder. 453 pages, $1.00, net. 

American Prose. Edited by H. E. Scudder. 414 pages, $1.00, net. 

Literary Masterpieces. With explanatory notes, etc. 433 P a S es > 8o 
cents, net. 

Masterpieces of American Literature. Edited by H. E. Scudder. 
With explanatory notes, etc. 504 pages, $1.00, net. 

Masterpieces of British Literature. Edited by H. E. Scudder. 
With explanatory notes, etc. 480 pages, $1.00, net. 

An American Anthology. Edited by E. C. Stedman. 878 pages. 
Student's Edition. $2.00, net. 

A Victorian Anthology. Edited by E. C. Stedman. 744 pages. 
Student's Edition. $1.7 5, net. 

The Chief American Poets. Edited by C. H. Page, Professor of 
English Literature in Northwestern University. 713 pages, $1.75, net. 

Selections from the Riverside Literature Series. For Fifth 
Grade Reading. (In preparation.) 

Selections from the Riverside Literature Series. For Sixth 
Grade Reading. With explanatory notes. 222 pages. 40 cents, net. 

Selections from the Riverside Literature Series. For Seventh 
Grade Reading. With explanatory notes. 256 pages. 40 cents, net. 

Selections from the Riverside Literature Series. For Eighth 
Grade Reading. With explanatory notes. 256 pages. 40 cents, net. 

Riverside Literature Series. 223 volumes, with introductions, notes, 
biographical sketches, and illustrations. 170 volumes list at 15 cents, 
paper, or 25 cents, cloth, net. 

Modern Classics. 34 volumes, pocket size, without notes. The uniform 
price is 40 cents, net. 

Rolfe's Students' Series. 1 1 volumes of poems by Scott, Tennyson, 
Byron and Morris. Edited by W. J. Rolfe. Price to teachers, 53 
cents, each, net. 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO 

8ij 



ENGLISH LITERATURE 

A Short History of England's Literature. By Eva March Tappan, 
formerly of the English Department, English High School, Worcester, 
Mass., author of England's Story, Our Country's Story, etc. 255 
pages, 85 cents, net 

A Student's History of English Literature. By William E, 
Simonds, Professor of English Literature in Knox College. 483 pages 
#1.25, net. 

Lives of Great English Writers. From Chaucer to Browning* 

By W. S. Hinchman, Instructor in English at the Groton School, and 
Francis B. Gummere, Professor of English at Haverford College. 
555 pages, $1.50, net. 



AMERICAN LITERATURE 

A Short History of England's and America's Literature. By 
Eva March Tappan. 399 pages, $1.20, net. 

A. Short History of America's Literature. With Selections from 
Colonial and Revolutionary writers. By Eva March Tappan. 246 
pages, 80 cents, net. 

A History of American Literature. By William E. Simonds. 
357 P a g es » $i-i o, net. 

A Primer of American Literature. By Charles F. Richardson, 
Professor of English in Dartmouth College. i8mo, 140 pages, 35 
cents, net. 



Send for descriptive circulars 



HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO 

815 



GREEK 

Masterpieces of Greek Literature. In translation. Supervising 
Editor, J. H. Wright, Professor of Greek in Harvard University. 
456 pages, $1.50, net. 

Homer — The Iliad (Bryant). Translated into English Blank Verse 
by W. C. Bryant. With Map and Pronouncing Vocabulary. Stu- 
dents' Edition. #1.00, net. 

Homer — The Odyssey (Bryant). Translated into English Blank 
Verse by W. C. Bryant. With Map and Pronouncing Vocabulary. 
Students' Edition. #1.00, net. 

Homer — The Odyssey (Palmer). Translated into English Prose 
by G. H. Palmer, Professor of Philosophy in Harvard University. 
With an Introduction and Maps. Riverside Literature Series, No. 
180. Cloth, 75 cents, net. 

^schylus — Prometheus Bound. Translated into English Prose 
by P. E. More, late Associate in Sanscrit and Classical Literature, 
Bryn Mawr College. With an Introduction and Notes. 75 cents. 

Euripides — Alkestis, Medea, and Hippolytus. Translated into 
English Verse, with an Essay on Attic Tragedy, by W. C. Lawton. 

$1.50. 

Sophocles — Antigone. Translated into English Prose by G. H. 
Palmer, With an Introduction and Notes. i2mo, 75 cents. 



LATIN 



Masterpieces of Latin Literature. In translation. Edited by G. J. 
Laing, Associate Professor of Latin in the University of Chicago. 
496 pages, $1.50, net. 

Virgil — The iEneid (Williams). Translated into English Blank 
Verse by T. C. Williams, formerly Head Master of the Roxbury 
Latin School. With Introduction, Illustrations, and Pronouncing 
Vocabulary. Riverside Literature Series, No. 193. Linen, 75 cents, 
net. 

Virgil — The iEneid (Cranch). Translated into English Blank Verse 
by C. P. Cranch. Students' Edition. $1.00, net. Postpaid. 

Seneca — Medea, and The Daughters of Troy. Translated into 
English Verse by E. I. Harris. With an Introduction. 75 cents< 



Send for descriptive circulars 



HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO 

820 



PLAYS OF SHAKESPEARE 

As You Like It. No. 93. With Introductory and Explanatory Notes, 
and Suggestions for Study. Paper, .15 ; cloth, .25. 

Hamlet. No. 116. With an Introduction, Explanatory Notes, and Sug- 
gestions for Study by Helen Gray Cone, Professor of English in the 
New York City Normal College. Paper, .15; cloth, .25. 

Henry V. No- 163. With an Introduction, a Bibliography, and Notes 
by Edward Everett Hale, Ph.D., Professor of English in Union Col- 
lege, Schenectady, N. Y. Paper, .15; cloth, .25. 

Julius Caesar. No. 67. With an Introduction, Explanatory Notes, 
Suggestions for Study, and a Bibliography. Paper, .15; cloth, .25. 

King Lear No. 184. With an Introduction, Bibliography, and Ex- 
planatory Notes. Edited by Ashley H. Thorndike, Professor of Eng- 
lish in Columbia University. Paper, .15; cloth, .25. 

Macbeth. No. 106. With an Introduction, Explanatory Notes, a'-io 
Suggestions for Special Study. With additional Notes by Helen Gray 
Cone. Paper, .15; cloth, .25. 

The Merchant of Venice. No. 55. With Introduction and Notes by 
Samuel Thurber, Master in the Girls' High School, Boston, Mass. 
Paper, .15 ; cloth, .25. 

A Midsummer Night's Dream. No. 153. W r ith an Introduction, 
Explanatory Notes, and an Appendix by Laura E. Lockwood- Ph.D , 
Associate Professor of English Language at Wellesley College. Paper, 
.15; cloth. .25. 

Romeo and Juliet. No. 212. With Introduction and Notes by William 
Strunk, Jr., Professor of the English Language and Literature, Cornell 
University. Paper, .15; cloth, .25. 

The Tempest. No. 154. With an Introduction and Explanatory Notes. 
Edited by Edward Everett Hale, Ph.D. Paper, .15 ; cloth, .25. 

Twelfth Night. No. 149. With an Introduction, Explanatory Notes, 
Suggestions for Special Study, and an Appendix. With additioi al 
notes by Helen Gray Cone. Paper, .15; cloth, .25. 



Prices are net, postpaid 



HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO 



ROLFE'S STUDENTS' SERIES 

BYRON, LORD 

Childe Harold. No. 10. With Introduction. Notes, an Analysis of the 
Poem, and Illustrations. To teachers: Cloth, .53, net. 

MORRIS, WILLIAM 

Atalanta's Race, and Other Tales from The Earthly Paradise. 
No. II. With Introductions, Notes and Illustrations. Edited by Oscar 
Fay Adams, in cooperation with William J. Rolfe, Litt. D. To teach 
ers : Cloth, .53, net. 

SCOTT, SIR WALTER 

The Lady of the Lake No. I. With an Historical Introduction, Ex- 
planatory Notes, Pronouncing Vocabulary, Map and Illustrations. To 
teachers : Cloth, .53, net. Also, Riverside Literature Series, No. 53 : Fa- 
per, .30, net. 

The Lay of the Last Minstrel. No. 3. "With Introduction, Explana- 
tory Notes, Map, and Many Illustrations. To teachers : Cloth, .53, net. 
Also Riverside Literature Series, No. 134 : Paper, .30, net. 

Marmion. No. 2. With Introduction, Explanatory Notes, Map, and 
Many Illustrations. To teachers : Cloth, .53, net. 

TENNYSON, ALFRED, LORD 

Enoch Arden, and Other Poems. No. 7. With Notes and Illustra- 
tions. To teachers : Cloth, .53, net. 

The Coming of Arthur, and Other Idylls of the King. No. 8. With 
Notes, History of the Poems, and " Various Readings." To teachers: 
Cloth, .53, net. 

Lancelot and Elaine, and Other Idylls of the King. No. 9. With 
Notes, History of the Poems, and " Various Readings." To teachers : 
Cloth, .53, net. 

Idylls of the King. Nos. 8 and 9. Complete in one volume. With 
Notes, History of the Poems, and "Various Readings." Cloth, $1.00. 

In Memoriam. No. 6. With Notes, a Portrait, and Biographical 
Sketch of Arthur Henry Hallam. To teachers: Cloth, .53, net. 

The Princess. No. 4. With Introduction, Explanatory Notes, and 
Many Illustrations. To teachers : Cloth, .53, net. Also Riverside Lit 
erature Series, No. n 1 : Paper, .30, net. 

Select Poems. No. 5. With Introduction and Illustrations. To teach- 
ers: Cloth, .53, net. 



In quantity for class use, the single volumes of Rolfe's Students f Series 
are each supplied at the special price of 47 cents, net, express unpaid. 

The rates on the combination volume (Nos. 8 and 9) will be quoted 
upon request. 



HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO 



RIVERSIDE LITERATURE SERIES 

LIBRARY BINDING 

The following volumes in the Riverside Literature Series are now 
issued in a new attractive library binding in red cloth stamped with 
a simple artistic design in gilt on the back. This edition is intended 
especially for college classes, where attractive, inexpensive texts are 
desired 

Chaucer's The Prologue, The Knight's Tale, and the Nun's 
Priest's Tale. 
Edited by Frank Jewett Mather, Jr. Nos. 135-136. 50 cents. 
net. Postpaid. 

Spenser's Faerie Queene. Book I. 

Edited by Martha Hale Shackford, Ph.D. No. 160. 50 
cents, net. Postpaid. 

Carlyle's Heroes, Hero-Worship, and the Heroic in History. 
Edited by John Chester Adams, Ph.D. No. 166. 60 cents, 
net. Postpaid. 

Essays of Francis Bacon. 

Edited by Clark S. Northup, Ph.D. No. 177. 50 cents, net. 
Postpaid. 

Selections from the Works of John Ruskin. 

Edited by Chauncey B. Tinker, Ph.D. No. 178. 60 cents, 
net. Postpaid. 

Goldsmith's The Good-Natured Man, and She Stoops to 
Conquer 
Edited by Thomas H. DickinsoxN, Ph.D. Nos. 181-182. 50 
cents, net. Postpaid. 

English and Scottish Ballads. 

Selected and edited by R. Adelaide Witham. No. 183. 50 
cents, net. Postpaid. 

Huxley's Autobiography, and Selected Essays. 

Edited by Ada L. F. Snell. Nos. 187-188. 50 cents, net. 
Postpaid. 

Everyman, and Other Early Plays. 

Edited bv Clarence Griffin Child, Ph.D. No. 191. 50 cents, 
net. Postpaid. 

Milton's Of Education, Areopagitica, The Commonwealth. 
Edited by Laura E. LoCKWOOD. No. 211. 60 cents, net. 
Postpaid. 

Ralph Roister Doister. 

Edited by Clarence Griffin Child, Ph.D. No. 216. 50 cents, 
net. Postpaid. 

Other Volumes in Preparation 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO 

1205 



MAR IS 1313 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




017 165 635 7 % 



